


Now We're Down to Our Bare Feet

by telepathy



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Broken Dreams, Comfort, Companionship, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship, Getting to Know Each Other, Growing feelings, Heartache, Hope, Illusions, Inner Dialogue, Kindness, Longing, Missing Scenes, New Scenes, Sadness, Suggestive Themes, What Could Have Been, what may be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-10-28 21:05:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10839438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telepathy/pseuds/telepathy
Summary: Beast is attacked by the wolves that meant to harm Belle. She visits him that first night and decides to stay. Conversations ensue, heartache and happiness happen intermittently and slowly, surely, things begin to change.





	1. The Darkened Chamber

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! I've decided to put the five currently independent fics over in The Castle & The Rose series together into one cohesive story. I'll be sure to go in and edit anything that doesn't seem to line up exactly (I wrote them all out of order!) and then I'll pick up from where we left off and eventually bring it to a close. Perspectives jump from Beast to Belle to omniscient because MY BRAIN. 
> 
> That said, I won't be deleting them from the series page itself, as I feel they could be viewed as standalone(s) still.
> 
> Lastly, title of the fic taken from Francis and the Lights song, "May I Have This Dance" which is kind of a perfect fit for Beast & Belle.
> 
> >> One more note: I recently read a tweet where a user stated she "couldn't be the only one who hates first-person fics, right?" She went on to say how it always felt that the writer was "inserting themselves into the story as that main character," and my mind kind of blew up. I can say with 100% certainty that I do NOT ever write a first person fic, such as this one, with ME in mind. I simply choose that stance to put you, the viewer, into the driver seat along with Beast or Belle. But it struck me and I wanted to make a note of it & ask your honest opinions – please feel free to comment below on either this or the fiction as a whole! x <<

I sneak into the bedroom late that first night, mind awash with bouts of concern and partial regret. I wasn't wrong for running away but he wasn't right for all the shouting he had done either. 

And now, here in his darkened chamber, I’m…not entirely convinced of why I've come for a visit. Is it to check on his wellbeing, or to satiate a curiosity I feel far too guilty to admit to?

Do I want to see him for his sake or my own? 

I've never come upon…someone like him. I long to know about this new person in my life, long to see more than what he has shown me. Perhaps this is utterly intrusive behavior, given he most assuredly has not offered anything of the sort, but I…I need to understand. With my eyes and my hands. 

Is he a man trapped, or a beast formed in the womb of something sinister and unnameable? 

I'm not afraid of him any longer; when he saved my life he placed his own into that ill-fated dance with danger. Knowingly. How could I fear that which would die for me?

However, I feel as though I deserve to know why. 

Quietly, I close the door behind me, clutching the knob with unsteady hands; I'm struck and suddenly stunted by the sound of heavy, quick breaths being pulled in and forced out. Then came a whimper, as though a canine had been viciously kicked during its slumber. 

I release the rich metal I've been clinging to and go to him; following a faded pathway of yellow candlelight, the dull illumination is both calming and unsettling. It's a sickly sort of light, one placed by the bedside in case a servant needs to tend to him quickly. 

Reaching for the simple candleholder, it's neither ornate nor special. But it's not the talking kind either, and for a moment I'm relieved no one object has found me out just yet. 

He sucks a sharp intake of air just then, and it's followed by a disturbing wince that sends ice straight through my spine. Turning, I look over at his features and a hand covers my mouth; he's visibly wrecked by the pain of his wounds, appearing as if every part of him is overcome by a combat with phantom steel lances. They are continuously running him through and I'm here, frozen, seeing it in real time. It’s…difficult to watch. 

Stood motionless next to his sizable form, my hands shake with an unfamiliar desire to bring him peace. Despite all he's done, _this_ is not something I'd wish on my greatest enemy. I gaze around the quarters to see if there is anything I can do, any salves or ointments on standby, but there's only a copper bowl full of chilled water and soaking washcloths. 

A growl emanates, tearing me from my silent mission and without thinking, I place a palm onto the center of his chest. The hair – _fur?_ – beneath his clothing feels soft and warm, a bit too warm, actually. But then of course I don't know a single fact about the anatomy of someone like…this. 

I know absolutely nothing about him. 

I keep contact there and press slightly; not a pressure meant to hurt him, nor startle, but to create a place of knowing between the both of us. I know he's in pain, I know it's partly my fault, but I'm here. _I'm here for you._

His breathing starts to settle into a normal rhythm and his head slowly stills itself; it had been shifting from side to side in the fit of things, his horns jaggedly piercing the linen beneath. I imagine he does that frequently to his bedclothes and yet, this mattress doesn’t appear to have been used in recent times. It looks new and inviting, not as if it has born his weight for any length of time. 

My stupor breaks when he does something unexpected: his left arm extends from beneath the duvet and a hand covers my own. 

He knows I'm here. 

He knows I’m here and hasn’t tried to pull or push me away, he’s simply…holding my hand. 

I want to lie down beside him and offer more comfort, more human closeness, but that might be misconstrued or even inappropriate given the…situation. Yet, I’ve not thought any of this stay through from beginning to end and my intentions are innocent enough. As they've always been.

So, I do it. 

I remove my soiled boots and step lightly into the darkened shadow of this frigid space, fully intent on nothing other than helping him. He can't lay here and suffer alone, it's neither just nor fair. 

Exhaling, I glimpse plumes of steam escape from my lips; it's colder in here than any other lived-in areas of the castle, but given all that thick fur, it's really no wonder. For me though, it's a bit too wintry. 

Despite the chill, I don't slip beneath the covers, opting instead to press my side flush against his. It's a mutually beneficial, albeit silent, agreement: I draw warmth from him while reinstating the contact he so clearly needs. 

You see, he had made a sad sort of sound the moment I removed my hand from his fevered breast, his breathing falling back into a shallow and uneven pattern. 

But now I'm closer, and he’s…he's exhaling too quietly? 

My head rests against a wide, hard shoulder, as my fingers wrap themselves around his wrist. It’s done from a place of comfort and intention: I take note of his thready pulse, and it's quickening, almost unkempt-like. But it's his air that worries me – he seems to have stopped breathing altogether. 

Raising my head, I'm immediately met with two strikingly-blue, guessing eyes. They're staring down at me, wondering, worrying, blindly confused. I want to laugh but I know in my heart it's very last thing wanted right now. Curious though…

He must have woken up when I moved to where I am now, but opted to say nothing?

"Is this alright?" I asked without knowing what words I was going to employ, but my question felt more like 'are _you_ alright with me, here?'

He remains silent, motionless, before nodding slowly; a small, barely-there smile begins to lighten his pained face and I know then that I've made no mistakes in this room tonight. 

I whisper softly, "We'll talk in the morning. You sounded terrible, and I…I didn't think you should be alone."

He squeezes my fingers gently, and it's an act I never comprehended he'd be capable of. Much like him saving my life earlier this evening. 

I suppose we both have hidden ourselves away from one another before now because, well, because what other options had we? 

I am his prisoner in this castle, but not in this moment. He's held captive by his own actions, and my reactions, but I can choose kindness. I can choose compassion. 

I can show him as much. 

I think I'll stay here, with him. Keep him safe from himself. If only for tonight.


	2. A Midnight Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle remains with Beast that first night and tends to him. She tries, he tries, but nothing ever really changes, does it? – New Scene Added –

I’m staying with him, like I knew I would. And he’s allowing it. There is no hesitancy or question, either literal or otherwise; I simply refuse to let him remain alone tonight. No matter, he seems to have reveled in the small, if not a little forced-upon, comfort. 

I’m beginning to suspect that he’s never come even relatively close to this type of connection, and truth be told, I’m not sure I have either. 

Of course I have the love of my father and those sparse, spoken memories of my mother's affections, but companionship and closeness have always seemed to escape me. 

This moment is nothing if not a welcomed experience though, despite the hint of an unnatural bond forming. 

And eventually I, too, fall into a light sleep beside him; his slow, easy breaths carried me away like the rhythmic cadence of waves coming ashore. Or so I've read as much. 

Unsurprisingly, it’s not been a restful slumber, as I’ve woken to check on him more than a few times and it’s barely midnight. My mind is flooded with irrational worry that I might overlook, or oversleep, through any signs of infection or fever; it’s true that with the former of the two I’m almost completely inept at handling. 

I’m also not convinced any sentient being in this household is capable of dealing with an ill Master at hand, at least none quite like him. But I have read a few things in the past that could possibly do the trick, if need be. 

He stirs and it startles my inner monologue, “Get some rest, Belle. I’m fine.” 

His words are grumbled and criminally-tired eyes are barely open enough to see whether I was actually awake or not. I suppose logic spoke on behalf of my movements, but that begs a few concerning questions… “Have you awakened every time I have? Should I leave and let you sleep? You need it more than I do. I’ll return tomorrow, first thing.” 

He doesn’t say anything and I take that as a clear indication of my needing to go. I fear I’m doing more harm than good at this point and I’d rather not unintentionally cause him to lose a night's rest by my disquieted nerves. 

I start to slip away from his side, moving so far as to have one of leg down and over the bend of the mattresses edge. I’m stopped abruptly by a large, strong hand, its grip true and yet unflinchingly gentle, “Please don’t…leave me.” He sucks in a gulp of chilled air and turns, a soft wince emanating, “Please. I…I don’t mind waking when you wake.” 

It’s not the frigid temperature or lack of lighting in this scary place that captures me, no, it’s the sincerity of his words and the plead to his tone. It steals the air right from within my lungs, replacing it with something I dare not name, for fear of what the morning might show me. 

_Who is this new person in my life, and what could this – all of this – possibly mean?_

I take his hand from around my bicep and squeeze it reassuringly, “I’ll stay then. Do you need anything?” 

He swallows and proceeds to drop a palm over those impossible cerulean eyes, “Yes, actually, I do. I’m…well, I’m…could you help me stand? I need to use the facilities.” To my delight, he appears impish and embarrassed by his request, but I make no fanfare nor pose any questions, I simply move to help. 

The instant my feet touch down on the icy stone floor, a shock soars through me; I gasp at how truly cold it is in this room, and just how comfortably warm I was lying next to him. 

_Him, he…the Beast. I need a name. But what to call you?_

I ponder my beloved books and a rush of character names come to me, but none seem quite right or suit him. 

_George, Romeo, Percival, Lawrence, Lennox…_

After a moment or two of distractedly tiptoeing towards the neighboring side of his poster bed, I arrive and reach out with my arms. He’s already sat upright, the pads of his paws – _feet?_ – resting on the partially crumbled, cracked checkered stone. 

“I don’t know how much help I can offer getting you onto your feet, but once there, I’ll steady as best I can.” 

He smirks and lets his head fall, eyes sealing as he fights the stab and sting of pain before it overwhelms. He forces out a breath of hot air and pushes himself to rise, wobbling a bit and immediately favoring his right leg. 

“There, now, where to next? I don’t think I’ve located the bathrooms on this side of the castle just yet.” 

I wrap an arm around his middle and he does similarly with my shoulders and the rear of my neck. There’s minimal weight resting on me however – I’m merely a means to keep him on the path, should any of his wounds prove to be too much of a burden. 

Emotional support, I’ve found, can make a great deal of difference in the outcome of a person’s capabilities, dire situations or naught. 

“It’s around that corner, there, only a small walk away.” 

We remain silent the duration of our short journey, but my mind is alight with endless questions: _How does someone like him_ use _the chamber? How have I never considered this before? Should I ask him at a later time? No, that’s highly invasive, don’t do that._

“Thank you, I’ll be but a minute.” So, it appears we’ve come to the halfway point while I had taken a brief holiday within the confines of my thoughts. 

“I’ll be here. No hastiness.” 

Unsteadily, he enters the grand washroom and secures the door behind him. I peek in as he does this, my curiosity nipping at every proper manner I had grown up with…and completely forgotten since being remanded here. 

True to his word, he’s returned and beside me again in a few moments’ time, an arm up and ready to loop around me once more. 

“What’s your name?” 

My eyes go wide with immediate embarrassment and utter stupor – I said that, aloud. No thought, no preamble, just let free the question and that was that. 

His brow rises infinitesimally and his mouth partway languishes open, “I…I–“

“No, no, I’m sorry. Don’t–forgive me. That’s inexcusably intrusive. Let’s get you returned and under the bedclothes to rest for the remainder of the night.” 

He nods and paints his face with an unsure smile; it sort of looks as though he’s disappointed to have not shared that intimate detail with me. As if he hadn’t realized how much he wanted me to know his name. Assuming he had one before…now. _Which of course he must…?_

The pair of us walk slowly, one step at a time, one balance reset at a time, until we finally reach the end of this intriguing midnight adventure. 

He slumps down onto the soft, pliable mattress and exhales, his chest vibrating with an unintended growl. He cuts it off when he realizes this and runs a hand threw the unkempt strands of his mane. A shoulder shrug and then, “Habit.” 

“No judgements here.” I whisper the words as I offer him a glass of old water. He politely declines and lays on his back a spell before rolling away from me. 

But I’m not leaving here tonight. 

I walk across the frozen stone and reach my end of the sizable bed – _since when did_ I _have a side?_

Easing myself down, I grapple with the decisions available to me: I can shift onto my left and face him, but that might be awkward, or force a conversation neither of us desire. Next, I can choose to turn away, giving him my back to have a stare at, which might be misleadingly rude. What it appears I’m left with is to sleep on either my stomach or back but, shockingly, I’ve paralyzed myself from making any sort of choice. 

“It’s okay that you asked about my name.” 

His voice carries across the room, enchanting the empty spaces between and around us, much like a lighthouse guiding its seafarers home. I hold onto its echo and the odd sense of comfort it brings; only just yesterday did I detest him, did I view him as a creature of the blackest night. But now – now things aren’t so simple, or knowable. 

Onto my left then. 

“It was not my place to ask, and I blurted it out like a rash, spoiled child asking for her morning biscuits.” 

He smiles at that, undoubtedly a familiar memory of his past rising to the forefront. It’s the first time I’ve seen such life to his features and it’s…pleasant. Not scary or unsettling, despite the size of his unnatural fangs. But those teeth saved my life and I’ll never be anything but grateful to him for having them. 

“It’s merely a name, Belle.” 

I fold an arm underneath my jaw and curl my lower half protectively inwards, closer to the middle of me. A shiver shudders through my body and he wastes not a moment inviting me to use his bed linens. “You don’t have to stay and be cold. But you’re welcome to lie beneath the blankets, if you do, stay that is. But uh, you don’t have to…or anything.” 

He stumbles over his words and I fight to suppress a giggle – it’s endearing and makes him visible to me in a way he hadn’t been before. A vulnerability is emanating from him and as much as I want to seize the opportunity, bringing childish levity to the forefront seems quite the opposite of appropriate. 

“Thank you, and yes, that’d be much better than this wintry un-wonderland you have happening in here.” 

“It’s all the fur, really.” 

He lifts the bedclothes and I ease in, unthinkingly. The bed is expansive but even under here I can feel a summer’s warmth permeating from off of him. 

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright? No fever or…anything of the kind?” 

He tucks in again, gripping the fabric with both fists a measure stronger than he should before sighing, “Get to sleep. I’m well and truly alright. I’m a beast…the thick overcoat is to blame.” 

I don’t like when he calls himself that anymore. Not that he’s done it much in the small amount of time I’ve spent here at a Royal palace. 

“You–you’re n…” 

But he did capture and imprison both my father and I. Is that not beastly behavior? Is that not something to be feared or justly concerned with? Suddenly my presence in this room, in _his bed_ , feels stifling and all too unsure. 

“Adam. My name is, well was, Adam.” 

The air abandons me and I turn to look at him. _What are these emotions, why am I feeling anything at all in response to this reveal?_

My mouth opens and closes like a guppy sucking its last, and suddenly, I feel a hot wave of foolishness threaten to overtake me. He knew what I was going to say and said the one thing that would cease my speech. He said his name **in the past tense.**

“Is your name no longer Adam?” 

He eases onto his back and I watch silently as those sky-blues glaze over with a reinstated distance; he’s mentally reshaping the wall between us. I swallow a sudden knot in my throat and shake myself ever so, unclear of how I should feel. 

It’s only then that I realize the barriers had come down, but what’s immediately worse – I’m not entirely certain I want them reconstructed. 

“I am no longer Adam.” 

Five words. Fifteen characters. Seven syllables. 

I felt something shatter in me, for him. I wanted to reach out and connect again, like we had earlier this evening – my side pressed to his. Longed to place my hand on his forearm, or entwine my fingers with his. Something, _anything_ to help with this achingly sad moment. 

But…why? _When did I gain ownership of this man’s emotional well-being?_

The simple answer was: I haven't. And yet my mind screams to offer him an act of kindness, despite the events that have lead us to right now. To show him he’s not a beast, not a “used to be” person. 

Because there _is_ something there that wasn’t there before. Something I dare not name in the disquieted corners of my thoughts for fear of exposing a truth too different to understand. 

“You’re not a beast, Adam.” 

His eyes flash open and he turns to me, the bed creaking under his bulk. I don't give him permission to speak just yet, words coming from within me without so much as a pause for air, “Would a beast save a girl's life? Would a beast see to it that she’s warm and comfortable during the snowy nighttime? Would an animal care about a life lived before its current?” 

The quarters' candlelight has faded to a nearly unseen glow behind him, but a tear glimmers and catches in his eye, and he makes no effort to hide it from me. 

“Would a man imprison another for stealing a rose on behalf of his daughter? Would that same man keep said daughter after releasing her father? And lastly, would it then expect gratitude and forgiveness upon saving the girl's life, even though he was the cause of her peril?” 

I want to cry, not from sadness or anger but by a combination of every emotion I’ve ever felt. He hates himself and won’t accept any measure of insight or opinion I might offer him, here on this night. 

Perhaps we’re both trying too soon to manifest a thing that’s simply not meant to be. 

Perhaps he’s pushing me away because I will inevitably leave and he will assuredly remain. 

Perhaps he’s been the prisoner all along, and not I.


	3. The Copper Bowl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beast is wounded & Belle tends to him. - Expanded scene! -

I wake to a cacophony of hushed voices and warmth. The chatter drops another length as my eyes slowly come round to opening; I know there will be time to discuss what’s happened, but my strength is already waning and fighting the need to rest seems a losing battle. 

My eyes wander about the room: Belle is sat by my side, her hands grasping a drink of some sort – she appears calm, quietly focused on…me. Then there’s Lumiere, Mrs Potts, and the regular crew nearer to the end of my grandiose bed, watching, waiting. 

I feel around my person and notice the tattered robes I live within have been…replaced? In the time between arriving to the castle and being put into my current position of comfort, I was stripped and redressed into simple bedclothes. Idly I wonder who did the switching. Silently I wish it wasn’t the girl.

For her to see more of _me_ brings a shudder to mind; I’m horrendous enough as it is. Despite the events over the last few hours and having her here, it's unnerving to not know when or who or how that change of attire happened. 

“…Would you like a sip of water?” 

Belle’s tone is even, unforced, and my heart lightens at the prospect that she’s no longer upset with me. Things were left a bit awkward after our late night conversing, but I'm relieved to know she's not holding that against me. 

Wholly unaware, I nod a muted ‘yes’ to her easy question; “Can you sit up any?” My brain immediately knows this to be a less easy request. But before I have the chance to respond, her hand is coddling the nape of my neck, an attempt to tilt my head forwards, chin-down. I help her. There’s a small glass wrapped in her tiny, sure hands and but I’m not looking at that right now. 

I’m looking at her. He face, eyes and lips and nose are nearer to me than anyone has ever dared, her face so close that the fur on my cheeks is warmed by her breath. “Drink.” 

Mesmerized, I’m frozen solid by what she’s stirred in me: she is touching me, again – Belle is here with me and not the least bit resentful. Doesn’t she know yet, can’t she see? I’m not a man, not a familiar face in any sense of the word. 

I gulp and swallow the cool liquid and my eyes roll involuntarily. The fresh water tastes like summer, or perhaps spring, and I know this is because of her. Belle isn’t winter-cold, or hardened by the passage of years spent alone, stalking the earth like a night-creature that has no name. 

She’s–“…Very good. Would you like more?” 

I shake my head faster than necessary and a horn gets caught in the edge of a pillowcase. She laughs and I stir uncomfortably. The hand that left from me moments before returns to shift the soft linen and malleable feather-down headrest out of the way. “This happens a lot, I imagine?” 

I look away, gaze directed towards a half-opened window and nod, “Sometimes, but I don’t sleep in here all that often.” 

She sits back onto one of her legs and the distance it brings is dreadfully painful. 

_Oh, right. Pain._

The wounds of my arm, shoulder and leg begin to pulsate, as if they had been torn open all over again. “Here, let me.” The girl places the glass on the bedside table and removes a soaking-wet cloth from the insides of a copper bowl. She leans over and across my chest to dab at my right arm, but I pull away at the last second. 

Despite my hasty efforts, water droplets still found purchase, falling into the sheared slices. I growl low in my throat and forgo the last of my reserves – turning my head away, I shout, “that hurts!” 

“If you hold still, it wouldn’t hurt as much.” 

“Well, if you hadn’t run away, this wouldn’t have happened!” 

“If you hadn’t frightened me, I wouldn’t have run away!”

“Well, _you_ shouldn’t have been in the west wing!”

“Well, you should learn to control your temper.” 

Silence descends upon the room and rashly, I hastily direct my entire front away from her; this effectively offers my wounded shoulder on a silver platter, but I trust her not to intentionally harm me. In the quiet, I concede that she’s right. I won’t tell her that in so many words, but Belle is intelligent enough to know when she’s won an argument. 

I hear beads of water drip-drop on the linen behind me but do not feel the press of any cloth. My eyes begin to close and I want to fade away to the enchantment of sleep, to dream human dreams–

“Do you need anything else?” 

Her words are softly-spoken, not abrasive or argumentative as they were only moments before. 

I move in time to see my servants depart but Belle remains. Her eyes are warm, kind. “No, I’m fine.” 

A pregnant pause encapsulates the space between us.

“Earlier, what did you mean when you said, ‘does she think me a beast, or man?’” 

My eyes fall from hers – I cannot explain myself out of this one with anger and intimidation. “I was…delirious, didn’t realize what I was saying. I’m tired and I’d like to sleep now.”

She stands and just as I thought she might be leaving the room, leaving me, she doesn’t; Belle merely changed positions to be on the opposite side of my mattress. Again. The side I’m facing. 

Settling in the center of the kingly bed-set to gain a better view of me, she wastes no time: “Sleep will come. Please, what did you _mean?_ I know you were man at some point in your life. I’ve seen the torn paintings of a youth with the bluest eyes. Like yours.” 

I sigh dejectedly and return to lay on my back, wincing at the sudden bite of pain that cuts through. This hurt will take some time to dissipate, of that I'm more than a little certain. But I suspect that what Belle poses to me now is a hurt that could last a lifetime. 

“Well, there you have it then, I _was_ a man.”

Belle leans towards him, “And are you a man still?” It’s a genuine question, but instead of pure curiosity, I can only hear the same hushed judgements as always. 

A faint, low rumble billows somewhere in the depths of his chest and he struggles to fight it. “Do I look like a man to you? Is this what men look like to _you?_ I’d hate to see the village you’re from if that’s the case.” 

Pinching her eyebrows, Belle frowns and slides herself from the bed, saying nothing as she goes. She’s upset, again. I've done that to her, again. 

“Thank you for not leaving me to the wolves.” 

She halts at the stately mahogany, her hand pausing as it clutches the doorknob, “I’d never let a man get torn apart by a pack of beasts.”

Belle says nothing else as she leaves me to my empty chamber. 

But I'm wide awake now.


	4. The Cellar Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beast is resting after his ordeal with the wolves, so Belle goes for an evening castle stroll. – Expanded/New Scene –

My anger over his outrage and overreaction has faded to something more like a passive annoyance. I don't yet know why he lashed out, but he did save me. And then I saved him. 

Surely he would have perished if left behind. Exposure or the fresh wounds he'd collected could have been the leading causes, or perhaps even the wolves might have returned. 

I shudder at the thought and silently thank my father for raising me the caring way. 

He's been sleeping a while now, and so I've busied myself wandering the great, quiet halls, candlelight illuminating my journey; thinking back to this morning's conversation, and last nights sleepover, I move amidst suits of armor and dusty window ledges – how might I offer any measure of compassion when he doesn't believe he deserves it? 

Is it even in me to give this to him? Is it my responsibility? Yes and no, I decide, my booted heels taking me farther into the castle then I've ever ventured. 

But I worry: he's been alone for so impossibly long that I'm not entirely certain there is a right way to undo his torment. 

Pausing at the base of a turret, I'm pulled from my inner musings to inspect my surroundings a bit more in depth: there’s aged stone dotted with emerald moss and a partially hidden flight of stairs draped fully in the blackness of shadow. I can only assume they lead down into one of the the castle's basements and my curiosity surges at the thought. 

Without hesitation, I descend, the fingertips of my left hand guiding the pathway with each and every step I take. There's oddities and imperfections like all royal and wealthy fortresses, but there’s more here, too. Fine chips and small shears that spider downwards, all together forming a peculiar pattern that doesn't seem to be…normal. They're too uniform, too…claw-like – not what you might discover from the weights and stresses each block must bear time immemorial. 

The faded, yellow light of my candle flickers suddenly, nearly extinguished by a gust of foul, acrid air. The scent that follows this unsuspecting plume all but assaults me and I'm forced to stop and choke back a gag. It continues on, waves of air moving about and pushing me backwards, as if an unseen entity is directing it. 

"What in the name of..."

Undeterred, I keep on, the desire to know what this _thing_ is, driving every purposeful movement I take now. I create a barrier between the winds and the apex of the candle, shielding my only source of light, while consequently losing the wall as my sole balance. 

It's getting more difficult the deeper I traverse but this is not something I can ignore. Who could? 

And then suddenly, everything stops. The whiplash from the air dies down, the scents recede and both of my feet are stood on the farthermost landing. I've come to the bottom of the staircase, successfully defeating a mysterious force. Or perhaps I've won a battle against nothing at all. 

There's a door straight ahead of me, and I start; its of an ancient wood, one that looks to be wearing an identical trail of marks to those clawed into the stones just above me. Yet, these etchings appear to have been…scorched onto the surface itself with precision and skill. It feels so mystical, so intentional, but an echo of otherworldly prowess seems more apt. 

Surely this is the work of a witch or an enchantress, there's little doubt there. "What…pray-tell…”

I touch the wood gently, sliding the pad of a fingertip down and up; mesmerized by the loops and dips left from someone long gone from this place, I trace the pattern absentmindedly. 

The curving, endless lines begins to glow, the light as white and pure as the daytime sun but completely unnatural all the same. Neither the moon nor a candelabra is the source of this and my intrigue is swelling greater by the minute. 

And then it happens. The door widens, slowly at first, creating a muddied symphony of faraway sounds that pulse through the frozen stone beneath me. The metallic hinge creaks that follow are jarring, piercing even, and I wince as it grates the underside of my skin, forcing my eyelids shut. 

After adjusting, I nibble on my lower lip and walk through fearlessly, recalling the words father had spoken of my mother. Her strength, despite never knowing it firsthand, drives me onwards, now more than ever.

That and an insatiable appetite for both adventure and the truth. 

I'm not disappointed. Through the doorway, I'm immediately thrust into a world unlike the one I'm currently a physical part of. It grants me permission without ever taking note than I'm actually here. Moving through and around me, encapsulating my every sense. 

In here there are beautiful women and men adorned in the finest ball gowns I've never dared imagined were real…and _dancing_. The movements are a series of choreographed, precise steps that are blindly engaging, each person begging for contact from the other; it's a grandiose ballroom of energy, fluid and utterly full with a lively, posh crowd. 

And there's a divine aria being sung to the keys of a gentlemen sat at his piano. But my eyes are drawn to what appears to be a Prince: a tall, handsome man wearing the peak of wealth and ornate attire. He's an attractive man in this, a deep, velvety blue-green embellished suit, but his face is unlike any other: he's made up with Kingly paint full of brilliant colors that emphasize and direct all viewers to his eyes. I cannot tell the true shade of his hair though, as a traditional royal wig is sat atop his head – one, I think, that adds far too many years to his youthful face. 

I watch him closely as he dances wrist to wrist with a series of interchangeable women; turning, twirling about in feigned celebration. His face is weary though, unenthusiastic even. It's as if he's done this time and again and his wit and lust for such routine events has waned. 

Stilling myself, I’m caught unmoving and stood in the center of this hallowed, frenzied rush. The Prince stops just before me, his eyes trained on a section of wall nearby the door I just entered through. 

And those eyes…they're intensely blue, a crystalline mirage that I've only ever seen worn by one other. 

_"...Adam? Beast"_

The figure doesn't hear or acknowledge me, in fact no one is able to see that I've entered their gathering at all. I realize it then: they're ghostly echoes – permanent phantoms stuck in a cursed loop. They’re not real in the way we exist in the present tense, but are absolutely true to their time. And it's obvious now that this is a memory, a moment encased forever, replaying for any who dare to brave the cost of entry. 

My gaze jumps from one side of this fantastic whirlwind to the next, searching for the source of their pause. Unabashedly, I gravitate towards those two vivid cerulean orbs – they calm me in a way I had realized only the night before. 

If I were there, perhaps I’d have asked for a da–

A thundering _’boom’_ storms from far off inside of this fated glimpse and its audible wake strips away any remaining enjoyment. There’s a palpable fear growing, and a sudden hesitance to the Prince’s actions that bring every patron and guest to an abrupt halt. 

The next few moments happen quicker than I’m able to process: a bolt of lightning strikes beyond a new and imagined doorway, an old, feeble woman stalks inside, uninvited yet full with purpose. The Prince goes to her, a rose is proffered, he sneers, refusing the stranger’s gift and then…everything changes. The old woman disappears, revealing a beautiful enchantress speaking of the beauty within and his lack of love and kindness. Whispers of damnation. 

I watch in stunned horror as he transforms right before my eyes; his physicality is stripped of the expensive, lavish clothing, leaving him naked, wearing a new body altogether. He lies inside a pile of tattered blues and greens, beside a set of broken sole-less shoes meant to fit a pair of feet he no longer owned. The Beast was born under the curse of an unwanted guest and I…feel a sudden sweep of compassion barrage my heart. 

“What had he done so wrong? _Refuse a rose?_ No, no, there must be more.”

The visage fades the moment he stands on two very unfamiliar legs and I throw my hands out to try and hold onto it a little while longer. It’s futile and I know it, but my heart is heavy by an unseen, unexpected ache. And then it begins all over again, from the very start. The Prince seated, appearing bored and unbothered by the beautiful men and women before him. Then he steps down from his throne to mingle…

“No, no! There has to be more–I don’t understand!” 

“She desired shelter and I denied her. It was my f-fault.” 

I spin around and nearly stumble over my own feet, finding a weakened and worn-down looking Beast; he stares at the ghastly memory playing out around me, his eyes forlorn and full of regret. 

“But you…you were young, you were so young… You were a _Prince_ …and a beggar woman came to you, uninvited and, and…” 

He sighs and leans against the heavy doorframe, his gaze rising to the vaulted stone ceiling, “It doesn’t matter. I had an opportunity to do the right thing, and I didn’t.” 

I walk to him, effectively closing the distance, though now I'm stood here and not entirely sure what I mean to do or say next. “Tell me, please? Tell me of this curse. How can I help? I was sent here for a reason, I must be able to help.” 

Those same blue eyes connect with mine and he smirks, raises an eyebrow, “It’s not your responsibility, Belle. Now come, let’s leave this haunted place.”

As we exit, the magical entrance is sealed once again behind us, on its own. We make the ascent in absolute silence, as Lumiere’s light leads us along; the candelabra is unwaveringly silent, detached even. I feel his the loss of his rambunctious energy as I lead from the front, and I find myself missing the quips and trickery of my small candle friend. Dazedly, my fingertips brush against the etched marks that piqued my interest from before and I throw caution to the wind and inquire. 

“What are these carvings? Did you do them?” 

Beast chuffs and nods his head, and tufts of matted brown hair bounce across his chest and shoulders. “I tried to undo the spell that the enchantress had placed upon the cellar door. I figured if I could break it, then I’d never be forced to watch… _myself_ from that time ever again.”

“Do you go down here often?” 

He doesn’t answer at first, eventually waiting so long as to give me pause. I stop and turn around, worriedly, “Did I say something ill?”

“I…I visit often enough.”

“But…why?” 

“Wouldn’t you?” 

There's nothing more to say as we walk amongst the shadows; I know though, without question what I would have done if presented with the same situation. Still, the punishment doesn’t seem to fit the crime and it’s something I promise myself to revisit with him again. 

For now, he must heal. If the curse is not my responsibility, his wounds surely are.


	5. Of Blue Eyes & Weathered Boots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Belle leaves Beast injured, alone and wide awake in his bedroom, he thinks about the night before and all that's happened since. - New Scene –

I latched onto her words, my mind no longer suffering from exhaustion; “I’d never let a man get torn apart by a pack of beasts.” Belle said that, to me, a beast, and then exited without so much as a passive utterance or discontented sigh. 

Sleep will not find me now, so I accept the failure and sit up, absentmindedly rubbing circles on my arm, massaging the tender muscle surrounding the wound. Inwardly I pretend this semi-painful distraction is substantial enough to steal my thoughts of her. It’s not, but what else am I left to do here now _but_ think?

The last sixteen hours of my life were unabashedly foreign to anything I’ve endured over the past ten years. I’ve been rendered useless by a curious stupor as every moment, word and action shared between her and I replays. 

Belle, the uninvited, remained beside me the whole night; straight on through to the morning, she had stayed here, in my quarters. Flashes of moments glimmer before my reddened eyes – every minute or achingly regretful happenstance had either brought her closer or tattered us like the torn drapes of my habitual attire. 

I _don’t know_ which outcome to follow as a basis to direct my thoughts, because neither seems wholly accurate. 

But then that agonizing and embarrassing walk to the facilities arises to the forefront, it then being followed by an ensuing conversation concerning my name. _Former_ name, rather. That particular topic brought along a sickening gnash of fear: I sensed her get far too near to a truth I’ve not dared to confront. All the meanings to those things I’d just as soon as remain reclusive from. So of course, I shut her out and pulled away because…what alternative did I hold claim to? 

She will never love me, never view me as anything more than a ghastly half-human, and perhaps that’s as it’s meant to be. That’s what I am. 

But I can’t help but wonder what more she might have said, had I not disrupted the momentary ease with which we had been reveling. For a time, it had been simple and I wasn’t… _this_. I was more, I felt like more. Last night I both appeared and appealed to her, somehow.

A shiver broke the rapport though, and I, with neither pause nor hesitation, offered comfort beneath the bed dressings. I can see it all so clearly now: there, the precise snap of time where realization had settled in. None of it was real, none of it would it last. It couldn’t, or shouldn’t. And so I did the only thing I’m truly gifted at and forced her into disquieted silence.

I wince in my current state, gripping tight to my wound out of misguided frustration. I growl, loudly and uncaringly, but do not offer any respite from my self-infliction. For the remembrances continue to flood, drowning me in their ‘what if’s’ and ‘what could have beens.’ 

I can’t recall when exactly it happened, but the lull of slumber eventually won out; we slept meagerly, given the awkward nature to our last bout of words, but sleep _had_ come to steal us away. 

Dawn brought its new and a fresh set of challenges though: when I awoke, almost immediately I was in desperate need of water and a numbing slave for my shoulder and lower leg. The pain was astonishing those first moments of consciousness; I groaned, teeth clenched and lungs trying, and failing, to suck in as much as they were capable. 

At one point I must shifted, as my eyes suddenly discovered her there, and that’s when every stab of pain had been instantly relieved from within. 

Belle was asleep on her side still, facing me. Two hands were loosely holding onto one another, ten fingers intertwined beneath a pillow. Her knees looked to be tucked in together by her belly, and her face was wearing a beautiful mask of blissful peace. 

Refrained from any jarring movements, I attempted to hold steady and sure, yet I wanted to be present, for this was not a thing I’d ever experienced before. 

Slowly, I slid one limb over at a time until I was mirroring the girl. Oxygen forfeited me at the full sight: her hair was luminous, lit fully by stark lines of morning light filtering in from behind. There were fraying strands of shiny brown that had found themselves caught in the corner of her lips – she looked messy and unkempt but the scene was everything I never realized I wanted out of life. Powerless and unable to stop myself, I smiled at how convincingly normal this moment felt like.

Without invitation, I used the tip of my finger and brushed the frayed bits of hair away, feeling an immediate flush of warmth against my paw. I yanked my hand back in irrational fear, and fell into a corpse-like trance of complete motionlessness. Didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, simply laid there, waiting to be found out. Waiting for the judgements to descend. 

For who was I to a bask in such normalcy? To revel in the respite her presence and _trust_ had granted me? To _touch_ her? 

Nevertheless, on she slept, and I guiltily took advantage of such borrowed, precious time by trying to understand how this situation had come to be. You cannot rest beside someone and sleep so deeply if there is no level of comfort or companionship there, yes? 

Then again, I did save her from being torn apart by a pack of feral wolves. It all felt impossible, so unreal and untrue and unfathomable. 

“Did you sleep?” 

That was the first thing she asked upon waking to find me intently gazing at her. Thinking on that now, an explosion of heat rises to mar my cheeks and stifle the healthy air trapped inside. If I could go for a fevered race through the woods right now, it’d be the only suitable outlet for these newfound emotions. 

Now is not for the call of the wild though, so I shake free from any lingering shame and willingly return to the moment.

“Did you sleep?” 

Our eyes met and I was the one to break contact first; I’d been caught, but she was kind enough to look beyond the obvious. 

“Yes, I did.” 

I didn’t know what else to say – there was _too much_ to say, I believe, and it would have ended in a disjointed mess of undoubted confusion. 

“Are you in pain? You look a bit…discomforted.” I nodded before realizing what I was agreeing to and in a graceful exit, she was out of bed and at the table, searching for what might cure my ailments. 

“I need to get some fresh water, I’ll return in a moment.” 

I watch her as she handles a copper bowl and makes a heading towards the lavatory. I notice those lived-in boots were back onto her feet, only the laces were left intentionally untied. I refuse to read into what that could mean. 

Instead, I mused over how I fancied this look about her – it felt genuine and simplistically wholesome. Not the bought and sold aesthetics of perfection I had lived with in my early days. 

_No, now is not for those memories._

By the time Belle returned, a few of the servants had managed to trickle in. They asked about my pain levels, same as she had, and what we’d – _we_ – desire for our morning meal. 

After the pleasantries were shared, she dipped a clean cut of linen into the pool of steamy water before coming to halt, eyes peering at me questioningly. 

“What?” 

“You need to remove your shirt. It’s bloodied and soiled again from your movements throughout the night and I didn’t want to bother you about it. Until now. Those wounds need to be cleaned again, and properly this time.” 

Instantly I was aware of every single glance training onto me. Sure, they’ve each seen me without any dressings, but…Belle? There was no going around it – the girl had been right, and so I acquiesced. 

“Uh…alright.”

I sat up then, a slick and throaty rumble roiling within chest; each bit of torn flesh ached, felt hot and stiff and uncooperative. Every shift of muscle seemed as though it were tearing me apart, but I remained resolute in my mission to assist her. In removing my shirt. 

She would see more of me then, more than I’d ever wanted her to.

I pulled on the knot at the neckline and then began to ease the cloth up and over my shoulders. There was a momentary snag as a few remaining tacky bits of the wound had adhered itself to the fabric. I seethed and instantly tore the garment from off of me, effectively severing the gash anew. 

Thick, red droplets proceeded to splash onto my bedclothes and Belle sighed dejectedly in response. 

“Now, why would you go and do a thing like that? You’ve ripped yourself open and now it’ll take even longer to heal!” 

She didn’t wait for a reply, just pressed the wetted wash towel onto me and waited. 

I roared at her actions and that’s…that’s when we fought our first.

_”That hur–“_

“Master, do you need anything?” 

It was Lumière’s interruptive words that awoke me from the nightmarish reverie I’ve ensconced myself within. 

I wanted to be angry, to misdirect my anguish and pain and…something else onto him, but what good would it have done? 

“No. You can go.” 

But he didn’t, go, that is. 

“Was there anything else you needed?” I desired solitude after such unexpected highs and lows.

“I’m sorry to bother, but it seems we have a bit of a predicament with the girl.” 

I sigh and tumble my eyes – of course we do. 

“What is it?” 

“Well, she’s…she’s taken a private tour down into the cellar. I can hear the music, am almost tempted to return for a visit myself, but I…Master, I think it’d be better if you went and retrieved her.” 

Saying nothing, I stand shakily and don a nearby shroud. It’s not quite as filthy and shredded as the one I’ve worn for…years, but it’ll do. No shirts for another day or two, according to the guidelines set forth by my new _physician_. 

“Well, if I’m going, you’re going.” 

For once Lumière says nothing, instead choosing to close his eyes and adopt a disturbingly static poise whenever he wants to recuse himself. 

The journey into the past is not one any of us here enjoy, least of all my servants. 

We, or rather I and a candelabra, set out nervously, passing Mrs Potts and a few others as we mark our way into the bowels of the castle. It’s a place we routinely force ourselves to see, despite the horrid aftermath each and every time. It asks too much of us when we place ourselves into a time when things were simpler, but we perpetuate it purposely. 

The girl must not linger any longer, though. She cannot ever know the full extent of the curse; my fears are heightened that this could influence her in a far more sinister way than merely discovering the truth. 

_If she knows what breaks the curse, how might she see me then? Would she have one day loved me but now never will because of who I am…who I was?_

Our descent complete, I come to a full-stop at the entrance, immediately submerged into that fateful night. 

_No, NO. Get her out, leave, leave now. No time, no time to waste watching that which cannot be undone._

The visage she’s standing inside of fades seconds before the stipulations of the curse were read aloud. A palpable surprise overwhelms me as I’m left to wonder when exactly that’s been altered. It had never ended at that part before…

A shiver walks the length of my spine once, twice, and I can’t help but wonder: _Is the Enchantress still watching me? After all these years?_

I hear her beg the emptiness for answers – the ghostly mirage was not enough apparently – though I’m not shocked by this inquisitive response. Belle is the most intelligent woman I’ve ever known and I’ve only just met her. Clearly her suspicions were warranted and yet I know no other would dare to ask the void for more; no matter, it’s come time for me to escort her out, to get as far away from here as we rightly could. 

“She desired shelter and I denied her. It was my f-fault.”

We exit the haunted room after that, and as we go she pleads for more, for any one thing or information that might help her quest. I explain it’s not for her to know but somewhere deep inside, I _want_ her to have the truth, all of it. 

She’s seen me at my worst already and yet I can’t help but pause on the way she looked at…Adam in that fleeting glimpse of the past. 

Her eyes had lingered on mine, or well the me from then, and Belle appeared to visibly light up. She had taken so quickly to my human incarnation, and I feel a part of my soul wither and ice over again. 

“That was you, in there. I could tell by…your eyes. Like the scarred painting on the wall.”

She’s stopped us in a lonesome corridor, stood next to a crumbling section of wall where fallen rose petals have had a deep and profound structural affect. 

“It’s not me now, though. Anyway, what does it matter?” 

She takes a step closer and cradles my jawline with her hand, “It _is_ you.” 

I gulp, fighting an urge to widen the eyes she’s speaking so fondly of. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter now. And please refrain from going there anymore. I…I don’t like it.”

“Then why do you go there ‘often enough?’” 

I shake my mane slightly and turn away from her – how might I best explain this to a woman who knows nothing of wicked curses and tricking enchantresses? Or of time spent in hell and torment over the damnation of my servants and myself. 

“Because I’ll never know otherwise.” 

Her brow pulls in and down, lips pursing together, “What exactly does that mean?”


	6. A Siren On the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle is a smart cookie, Beast is coming to realize this one admittance at a time. But is it all worth the aggravation?

_“What exactly does that mean?”_

I pay attention to her mannerisms, observing in an almost reposed state as her weight shifts balance from one heel to the next. Her face is a contort of confusion and impatience – whether towards me or the truth she so desperately seeks, I can’t be sure. 

If she were a woman of similar character to those I had once known, she might have been biting a lip or twirling an intentionally provocative strand of hair while deferring on my speech. But she’s not that _way_ and I …I find myself drawn in like a moth to flame. 

Another flush of heat rises to the apex of my non-collared shirt and I turn away, embarrassed with myself by how easily I’ve forgotten my position in this world. In Belle’s world. 

“I’ll never know what it’s like to…to have _that_ again. To be surrounded and accepted and revel in the simplistic pleasantries of life. To have the possibility of–“ 

“To dance at posh parties while being blindly adored by your constituents and servants? To first misunderstand and then mistreat the intentions of an Enchantress?” 

Her words are crushing and cruel but their intent feels less so; even still, I lean into her and scowl, incapable of stopping myself. Then abruptly and without warning, I make way to leave. She’s bruised my both ego and the last remaining shred of sensitivity I possess, but of course she would do that, for how could Belle ever understand? 

Why I bothered to attempt to explain away an answer is a thing I’ll spend a few moments thought on, but for now, I need to nurse an entirely different wound. Rest seems to be the only facet remaining lately that’s of any good use, and so I follow its call and hurry my body as much as I can. 

“No, wait, don’t rush off. I didn’t mean that the way it…sounded. I simply meant to imply that regal celebrations seem empty and void of what y-you appear to be in search of.” 

Halting mid-stride, I’m met with another struggle: my muscles nearly seize by her mystical laws of deduction and I’m unable to move; how can she possibly know what I want? What I so long for? She hadn’t seen the full measure of that night and now she presumes to know? 

I shouldn’t bait her, yet, off I go. “And how do _you_ know what I’m in search of?”

Consciously, I choose not spin around and face her – I’m far too fearful she’ll be granted additional insight into what and who I am. What’s changing within and how she’s suddenly a monumental part of that inner shift is a frightening concept and one I’m not quite prepared to fully accept. 

If I see her, it’ll be harder to deny any truths she aims to bring forward. 

“Because I…I understand the lure of not being alone.” 

My eyes seal shut, and oxygen slowly abandons me in an unbroken, relinquished exhale. I have to regain control, must not allow her to know the full scale of the curse, “You’re wrong there. I’m better off with solitude, and it’s been that way for a very long time and it’ll continue to remain that way.” 

Belle goes disturbingly silent, and I finally turn to make certain that she’s not run off without so much as hushed footfall. Not that it’d matter if she did… 

What I see is much worse, though. Rendered speechless, my prisoner turned guest turned savior stands there, shaking and in an angered state of distraught. Belle is crying true tears and I’m powerless, “Are you…why are you…what’s that about?”

Perhaps there were better ways to pose the question but every available and considerate option fled right out of me. In that moment, I wasn’t concerned with her well-being so much as where such a sudden and brash reaction stemmed from. 

“My father was all I had…my entire life. You think I don’t know what alone feels like? What being outcasted and different from every one else is? You’re sorely mistaken if you think for one second you are the only person who understands any of that.” 

Her words storm through and beyond me, and I sense my blood rise up in a flash boil – who is she to compare herself to _me_ , a Beast? 

I roar and thrash my limbs, knocking age-old decor from their pedestals unthinkingly, wholly dispassionate towards their certain demise. “How dare you try to compare YOUR life to my own? Like you know any semblance of what it’s like to survive a perpetual darkness, shrouding the ugliness of who and what you are! I don’t **want** to be alone forever, doomed to this monstrous twist of fate, never to find compassion or companionship or-or even love… No, you don’t, you _cannot_ possibly empathize.” 

Fevered gasps fill the hall around us, my heart racing thunderously beneath my bones, but the anger languishes quickly as I begin to realize what I’ve done. 

Standing statuesque, I already know it’s too late to take anything back; I await her judgements in shameful silence, my shoulders slumped under the suffocating weight of my shroud.

She wipes at damp eyes and tilts her head high, simultaneously moving to shorten the space between us, “It’s okay to want those things, and it’s alright to say them aloud. You cannot ever hope to overcome whatever this…this curse is, by yourself. I don’t know what undoes the undone but you don’t need to fool yourself into believing a mistruth.” 

She’s shifted something in me, of that I’m almost certain of now. But was it through manipulation or genuine emotion, or was she prying and forcing my hand to reveal what she already knew existed within? 

My anger is my shield, and so I wield it with vigor and purpose. “Sorcery! You’ve tricked me into…int-“ 

“Into what, exactly? Sharing all those little nuances that live and die inside, keeping you awake each and every night? I _miss_ my father and I long to see him again, but you’re…there’s more to you than you realize. I’m here, why not let me help? If only you can open up to me, I can do that.” 

A billow of heated steam exits through my nostrils as I ponder her sincerity, mind busy sharpening each character into spears that can wound and infect, if left unattended to. 

**“No.”**

Her neck pulls to the rear in inquisition, and two hands reposition themselves to grip the bony handles of her hips, “No? No, what?” 

“Just because you’re here doesn’t suggest that responsibility defaults to you, either to help or hinder me. You’ve fooled me into sharing with you tonight, and now you’re proffered assistance arrives on a platter of convenience. Not for you, of course, but for me. And I’d rather you not feign interest due to circumstance.” 

My legs wobble in their weakened state, and suddenly I feel a grave way about everything that’s happened since Belle’s arrival. I wonder if this wasn’t all part of some magical grand plan on behalf of the Enchantress? No matter for now though, my fatigue is running through and I need a lie down before gravity does the work for me.

Not wanting to hear another forced excuse or empty promise, I turn from her and leave this time, limping on to my quarters one painful step at a time. 

“Goodnight, Belle.”

I trek nearly a third of the distance before she’s beside me, her arm easing around my mid-section as much as it’s able to. I stop and gaze down at her and then repeat the pattern we used earlier this morning. She feels warm and soft beneath the fur on my arm, and it’s a pleasant distraction in comparison to today’s unforeseen turn of events. 

We say nothing, because what more might be said? I’m a selfish, controlling brute and she’s a too-good try-hard who won’t take no for an answer. 

I suppose sleep might help, and thankfully she doesn’t argue against it once we’re situating back inside of the bedroom.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“Well, will you go traversing into the bowels of the castle again if you don’t stay?” 

She smiles, laughs a spell even, and I force my gaze elsewhere; my heart severs itself into separate parts at the sight as a visceral ache emanates, causing another psychical distress. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“No-nothing. Would like a glass of water, if you would be so kind?” 

She nods and pours, filling a small carafe and handing it to me direct. “So, do you want me to stay?” 

I nod with satisfied gratitude and then proceed to pour the entire miniature jug of liquid down my throat. I see her startle a flash before the surprise quickly ebbs; I cannot, and don’t, care about appearances at a time such as this. At least, if I’ve been following along properly, she intends for me to feel acceptance above all else.

“You can stay, but I know breakfast is more than likely waiting down in the dining hall.” 

“They’d make you travel from your sick bed to eat? Seems a bit harsh to me.” 

I laugh inwardly at the innocence of it all and want to thank her for the sudden invite of levity between us. Last night, this morning, the cellar and then the hallway – so many highs, so many lows. I wonder, if she does remain here, how things would, or even if they could, change? 

“No, they’ll bring me the food directly after setting yours. I may be the Prince, but you’re the new guest, and they’ll cater to you first from now on.” 

Belle’s forehead scrunches up, and tiny folds form at the edges of her vivid brown eyes – it’s the second loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. Apart from her smile, that is. 

Another gaze-away, another sizable lump to swallow all of the sudden. 

“Well, that’s respectable. I’ll go inquire about your menu options for this morning and return sometime in the afternoon. Perhaps with a book? In the meantime, you rest. And I-I’m sorry. I wasn’t outwardly manipulating you for answers, I promise. I _do_ miss my father deeply but I also understand loneliness more than a cursed Prince may expect of a simple village girl. That said, my curiosity, and good nature, abandoned me in that moment – I shouldn’t have pushed so hard.” 

I take Belle’s hand and squeeze lightly, my thoughts marred still by the disbelief that she allows such an action. That she isn’t disturbed by or shuddering at the touch of my paw. 

“I shouldn’t have shouted at you. So it seems we both have reasons to be a little apologetic.” 

She smiles again, a half-smile that’s slightly more serious than not, and then places a hand over my heart as she stands. “Rest. I’ll come back soon.” 

And then she’s gone. There’s not a fight nor a great sense of urgent tension, there’s just me in this room. After holding her hand. After brushing the strands from off of her sleeping face.

I change positions on the mattress to hide from the day’s minimal, overcast light. Sleep desires to claim me as its own, and I can no longer stay the inevitable. Regardless of how I long to pick apart each of our interactions, to see them for what they may be versus what I’ve always believed they are, now is not the appropriate timing. 

Perhaps when she returns with a novel, but not until then. 

Something whispers to me that there are to be no nightmares, nor haunted memories in this partial moment of slumber. No distressing visions or siren calls that arrive on the wind – just an oblivion that one might even pass as pure peacefulness. 

Then again, I could be the fool risking it all to earn the affections of a curious, beautiful girl. 

There is no hesitancy as a single thought consumes my waning stream of consciousness: Belle is worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for every single thing, my lovely readers! I know I double-dipped a bit posting these twice in both the series & now here, but you've welcomed me & I cannot thank you enough! 
> 
> A few more chapters before wrapping this small little fiction up, but I promise it'll be worth sticking around for!


	7. The Wardrobe & The Washroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle has breakfast & takes a bath while Beast sleeps. Madame de Garderobe suspects there's more going on than even Belle realizes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah life! Sorry for the delay – won't happen for chapter 8. :) x

The morning meal was simple, traditionally familiar even; consisting of fresh coffee and hot tea, I enjoyed nibbling on a succulent cocoa croissant, belly already praising the chef as I leave the hall. 

Who had been, as it turned out, an oven. A crabby one at that, but I understood his plight: not only was he cursed like the rest of the castle staff, but was also strictly remanded, for seemingly ever, to the kitchen. He was living a statuesque sort of half-life and my heart clenched with utter grief; I couldn’t imagine existing as an object, but if I must, at least allow me the freedom to roam the premises. 

Exiting the dining hall, I pause, suddenly awash with surprise over how quickly my thoughts have conformed to the current circumstances. I never would have imagined an enchanted world with talking candelabras and lavish wardrobes, and yet, that’s all I longed for and read about throughout the years of my life. 

I suppose it was all that adventure and thrill seeking clouding my expectations so that by the time these events actually came to fruition, I wasn’t least prepared. But now, now I’m merely trying to adjust on a day to day basis. Especially when it comes to…Adam. I know there’s more to him than he lets on, more to his story and this entire Royal fortress than meets the eye. 

The Rose for one – I’m still not entirely sure why he rescued me after shouting me down and forcing an out. Was it of guilt or is there something…more he hasn’t told me? I know their curse lasts the duration of the flower’s bloom, but beyond that, I have no further information. 

Sighing out of a slight discontent, I make headway towards the bedroom, but not his, not yet. There’s something I must do first and though I know it’s an entirely selfish desire, I can’t help but think it’s needed now more than ever. I want to take a bath. 

Peeking hesitantly into my own quarters, I keep my breath for a moment and listen, wondering if anyone is in here and if so, are they…active? I hear Madame de Garderobe humming softly to herself, the sounds still so impossibly beautiful, despite the fact that she has neither a mouth nor a throat. 

Silently stepping in, the grandiose armoire greets me heartily, her gold-plated limbs reaching in my direction, “Ah, there you are. I’ve been wondering when I might see you again!” 

Her energy is infectious and I find I’m totally entranced by her, a part of me longing to forgo the wash and simply sit in here and have a chat. Discover who and what she was in her former life while maybe even gaining additional insight into what’s transpired in this forgotten place. 

“I didn’t see you come in last night…did I sleep all the hours away again? I’m doing that quite a lot these last few months.” 

I settle down on the lip of the mattress and go through the motions of removing my boots and soiled socks. After wearing them these last few days and nights, their scent is strong and unfavorable – just another thing that needs cleaning. 

“I …didn’t sleep here last night, actually. I stayed with the Bea–with Adam.” 

The ornate cabinet lists to one side and then proceeds to lean backwards, “Y–You know his name? You…stayed with him…in his bedroom?” 

A glee washes over at her stammering, unexpected response; I don’t laugh but rather offer a kind, telling smile and nod in acknowledgment. “Yes, yes I did. I didn’t want him to be alone, not with those deep wounds. I feared me might succumb to a fever or worse. Raised in a poor provincial town, I’ve heard of far too many stories that gave me cause for concern.” 

Her velvety curtains shimmer and a distinct, telling, “Mmhmm…” follows. I’m not in the mind to examine the events of the last handful of hours so I blatantly ignore her and get right to it: “Anyway, I wonder if I might conjure a bath? I’m about as far from cleanliness as I’d like to be.” 

“Why, of course, my dear. I’ll fetch Mrs. Potts and have her bring in the proper essentials – hot water, fresh robe, cuts of soap. You go on into the closet for now and choose a brand new daywear set while I take care of everything. Just remember to lay your garments on the foyer table and I’ll retrieve and take them to the barrel.” 

Pushing a breath of trapped air, I smile and bounce my feet against the plush bedding, the anticipation of a hot bath in order is akin to finishing a now-working invention – it’s a very, very good feeling.

“Thank you very much. Adam is sleeping and I figure I have some time before getting back. And I trust that he’ll not need anything between now and then.”

Another suspicious mumble before, “So you’ve taken on the sole responsibility of his care, then, have you?” 

It’s neither rude nor accusing but there’s a subtle hint of _something_ that’s not-so-hidden beneath her words. “Not completely, but I…I feel like the cause of his current state and it’s unsettling to think that I nearly left him behind. And I want to help, of course. I find I enjoy talking with him, too…not so much the fighting, but…”

My words cease as I catch the posture of the walking, operatic-singing wardrobe, “What? What did I say? What’s the matter?” 

“Oh, nothing, ma chérie. I’ll be off now to–Mrs. Potts! I was nearly on the way to you. Our lovely guest requests some steamed water for a wash.” 

I don’t remain seated or watch them speak, opting instead to gather myself to steal a look into what I’ll be wearing after my freshening session. I smile: the attire is quite simple and mirrors my current look well. The long sleeved top is tan and flat, with neither a designs or color anywhere in view. Attached to it is a cream-colored skirt that will come just below my kneecaps – a perfect length that promotes both comfort and ease. There is no ruffle underneath and though that’s odd, the more I pluck my fingers through the fabric, the more I deduce it’s something akin to a bedtime gown. 

“It’ll only be until the morning, love, then you’ll have yours returned to you in a better state.” 

Mrs. Potts winks and then leaves on her cart to fetch the steamed water. “Have a lie down, while you wait.” 

I don’t do that, instead opting to seize the moment.

“How come you appeared to be surprised upon finding Adam had told me his name? Surely you must have known it all this time…” 

I know it’s an illogical statement, but I need to understand why this palace and these former human beings have come to be this way. It feels a lot like what I had done to Beast last night, leaving an ill taste in the back of my throat, but if there’s some way for me to help, I have a right to know. 

“Oh. He doesn’t…well, you see, he’s not that talkative these days. Keeps to himself mostly. Either in his tower or out roaming the grounds. Though I always fear he’ll be shot, or worse, when he does that. Imagine the townsfolk coming upon a sight like him. Worries me right down to the studs.” 

I grip the pliable down blanket and absentmindedly chew on a lip, “But I’m here. I’ve not made to hurt him and I’m from the town.” 

“Yes, but you seem to know better now. Surely there are hunters in your village? Those are the sorts I mean.” 

Gaston immediately rises to mind and I cringe, “Yes I know of a man who would do just that had he ever stumbled upon Beast. It’s chilling to think of such a thing happening… Gaston must never know of this place.” 

“I doubt anyone ever will, beyond you. Once the last petal on the rose falls, the lot of us will be…gone. The Beast will be left as he is forever and I doubt he’d demand for you to stay here with him.” 

A sadness blooms inside of my chest, somewhere low but not altogether foreign now. I loathe the thought of these people becoming rubbish, as Cogsworth so eloquently had put it earlier. They deserve more, deserve better and, “What can I do to help? I understand there’s a truth I don’t yet know, but if it can reverse this spell, why not share that with me?” 

That was the moment Mrs. Potts returned with three carts, each with a double shelf full of large bowls of hot water. “Never you mind, my dear. Your curiosity is appreciated more than any of us will ever be able to say. But it’s not for you to know.” 

Dejectedly, I stand and follow her into the washroom; the floor is cold but not quite as icy as it is in his room – a small thing to be thankful for. Once inside, she directs her able-bodied servants – a pair of forks, a spoon and three knives – to set out the materials needed before taking a slight bow as she sees herself out. 

“Enjoy, and don’t worry about tidying up afterwards, we’ll take care.” 

I hear de Garderobe sing a reminder for me to leave my dirtied garments where she will take them and can’t help but smile. What a life, what a pampered way to live – if I stay, I don’t foresee ever getting used to this, at least not completely anyway. 

Pouring one bucket at a time, I slowly fill the porcelain claw-tooth tub and strip down to nothing. Laying each part of my attire out with care, I fold and smooth over the wrinkled parts where I’m embarrassed to see is both threadbare and muddied. No matter. 

I pull the pin from my hair and shake it out, using fingers on each of my hands to brush through the knots and twisted parts. A tiny brown twig drops from somewhere behind my ear and I giggle heartily – oh, how fitting it all feels. How suddenly normal. 

Descending into the steamy water, a sound escapes as a chill races through from toe to tip; I settle back against the rear of the basin and the water rises to meet my chin, encapsulating all of me entirely into one comforting and quiet moment.

I close my eyes as the will for them to keep alert fails me – the soothing aromas of melting soap and sterile water is entrancing, like a song that holds onto you long after it had finished playing. 

I hear the entranceway widen a length and Madame announces it’s ‘only her.’ No doubt she’s come to take away the clothes she made such a fuss over and so I thank her kindly. 

“Oh, and the Master is awake, and was asking about you. I’ve told him you’re indisposed at the moment, but I figured you’d fancy knowing. That he asked _about_ you and not _for_ you, that is.” 

The door clicks closed after that and I spin around trying to gain a better view; _’why did she emphasize one word over the other? Am I to…what exactly am I to do with that?’_

 _’I mean, sure, I did find our midnight talks enlightening and yes, he’s a challenge but…why does it appear as though she is suggesting something beyond merely the events of last night?_ I talk with myself as though I have answers to questions I’ve only just asked and it’s all so exhausting. 

How am I to rectify everything that’s happened? My father, me – imprisoned here in the very castle I’m reveling within, taking a rare bath? I don’t surmise it’ll make sense for a while, but the facts are what they are. I should be angry with him and perhaps to a degree I am, but…but he saved my life. Nearly gave his own and for what? 

_’Well, you don’t know what, yet, do you?’_

I splash the water and flick at it a few times, watching the surface swirl and ripple outwards before the loops break apart at the apex of my bended knees. Leaning my head back, I breathe in the hot air; it surrounds me, mesmerizing me into a welcomed lull. I could fall into a trance and never return, if only for just tonight.

“Belle?” 

And then suddenly, he’s there. Standing by the wash sink and gazing over at me. He can’t see through the tub but I’m here and…do I stand and exit? Do I call him to me? The sight of those crystal-blue eyes appear as though they’re seeing directly through – beyond the flesh on my bones and the matted hair on the nape of my neck. 

_Belle?_ He says it again and reaches for the plush robe that’s hanging nearby. _“Will you come to me? Will you be the one who breaks the spell?”_

I nod and grip the solid white edge of the bath with both hands, knuckles bleached from the force. I want to go, I want to stay – suddenly so unsure and sure at the same time. 

“Belle? Belle, are you alright?” 

I sit up in a moment of panic, my eyes flashing wide open – I thought he had been in the room, right there, with me. “Um, yes, yes I’m okay. Thank you.” 

“You’ve been in there quite a while, love. Would you like more hot water?” 

“Oh, no! No, I’m finishing up, thank you.” 

And I do, finish, and then wrap myself into the thickest robe I’ve ever worn. The only robe I’ve ever worn, if I’m being honest. 

Pinning my wet hair in an unkempt temporary updo, I exit the room and am immediately greeted by a quizzical Mrs. Potts and de Garderobe. I have a sneaking suspicion they’ve been out there some time and say as such, “I fell asleep, I believe.” 

“We assumed the same as it’s been well beyond an hour. Everything alright?” 

My head tilts in question, “Yes, of course. The hot water was an absolute joy, thank you Mrs. Potts and Madame de Garderobe.” 

They say nothing related to that before, “He’s fallen back to sleep but I wonder if you wouldn’t mind reading to him for a little while when you…go to him? I think he’d very much enjoy that.” 

The echoes of the dream rises to mind and my cheeks flush with shame, “So, I must have been speaking aloud?” 

They nod politely, gently, as if merely answering without judgement or accusation. “It’s alright. I told you, he’s not as bad once you get to know him.” 

Hurriedly, I dress in the new set of beige attire and proceed to lace up my boots. Adjusting my hair as per the norm, I pin both sides of it in the rear, but consciously allow a few damp strands to linger by my cheeks. Heading towards the entrance, I stop abruptly and run to the bed – I almost forgot the one object I unintentionally had on my person when arriving: A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for supporting me & this work! Means the world. This bit came out of no where and I suspect the same will continue to happen. That said, I'd wager there will be about 2-3 chapters remaining in this fic, and then the other BIG one will officially start.


	8. The Ghost & The Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle returns to Beast's quarters to tend to him, but insists he takes a bath. She wanders and stumbles upon a blue-eyed Prince.

It’s dark by the time I step into his quarters, day replaced completely by a flickering, yellow half-light that’s draping the room in an eerie amber glow. 

I find my subject in question lying in bed, flat on his back. No nightshirt yet, and it leaves me wondering if any of the staff have come to assess his wounds as I was otherwise engaged. It’s worrying how concerned I am, but I suppose it’s simply a part of who I am. Truthfully, if I weren’t as such, I’d feel a great level of urgency for the state of things. 

There are no sudden movements as I approach, no tells that he’s either asleep nor awake; only the symphonic push and pull of breath – my own as well as his. 

It’s a calming reassurance that he’s healing, but my thoughts flee, returning instead to scene of the attack: the wolves and their fangs tore at flesh and fur all in the effort to maim his throat, as is the way of every predator. But he fought them off victoriously, roaring and utterly feral in a moment that called for that and no more. 

_’Does he act aggressively in less dire situations or merely the ones where saving a life is of utmost import?’_ I ponder this and more as I settle, sitting this time by his waist versus having another lie down. 

Once is fluke, two is a pattern, three becomes habit. I tread lightly for I’m constantly aware of just how I had come to be here. 

I lean over, careful not to press as my elbow rests atop his hardened abdomen and, unthinkingly, run a single fingertip down the center line of his nose. 

I–I do not know why I did that, I just…did. The dream surges into my every molecule like an endless tide and I see him, watching me in the bath all over again. Whispering words of salvation and promises of _more_.

He startles, waking me from the momentary lapse of reality and then there’s a flash of blue, “What…what are you? Where…” 

I smile as my face hovers directly above, and I watch as recognition tames his apprehension; he’s assured that it’s me and not some unseen intrusive ghost. In a subtle, gentle way, he breaks the silence with a simplistic, “Oh.” 

“So, would you like me to read to y-“ 

He winces and coughs, mouth gaping as it sucks in the frigid air surrounding the pair of us. I watch as two bushy eyebrows pull in on themselves, his lips forming a hurting grimace; my heart rate increases two-fold as I try to educate myself on what might possibly be wrong with him. 

“What, what is it? What’s wrong?” 

“My…my leg is cramping around the wound and I can’t get…it won’t relax. I need to work the muscle but…eh.” He rises to sit, I back away and stand, allowing him space to gain a better view beneath the blankets. “Here, let me.” 

I grip the edge of the multi-layered comforter and pull it off at an angle, exposing his lower half and the limb in question. I can’t help but notice that he’s wearing a pair of torn off half-pants and they’re dirtied and dreadfully crinkled – he’s been in these for a while. 

A groan steals my train of thought as he massages the lower calf, his head thrown back in a whimpering growl; droplets of blood fall as his claws – nails – accidentally pierce the aching wound farther than he intended them to. 

“Stop that! You’re making it worse. Let me help.” 

I push crudely at his shoulder and he doesn’t fight it, instead falling onto his back in knowing defeat. He’s realized already that arguing with me might be pointless – or perhaps he’s just in too much pain to care. _’Stop making it about you, Belle. Goodness.’_

Retrieving a washcloth, I place it in the palm of my hand and press it against his bleeding leg. The warmth from his body seeps through the hand towel onto my skin, and I question for the second time if this is the natural temperature for him. 

“Do you always run so hot to the touch?” 

He doesn’t open his eyes as he nods in agreement, “Every since the Enchantress turned me into this…thing, my body temperature is a higher. Though, I suppose that’s better than not having any thermometer at all, like my house staff.” 

I shift the washrag over the entire wound and the muscle itself, feeling the tendons begin to ease with every roll of my thumb and forefinger. He sighs and I smile – it feels good to do this for him – to help. 

Despite circumstances. Which have not felt as desperate as I originally expected they might be. 

“Thank you…that feels impossibly better already. You’re a magic woman, aren’t you. Oh, God, not another sorceress, I hope?” 

I suspect he’s making a joke – _’he makes jokes?’_ but his face doesn’t appear as if it holds any humor; “I most certainly am not that. I simply know how to cure the ailments you’ve presented me with so far. That said, you are bleeding again, so I’ll need to wrap this for a time. And you need new linens. And trousers. Perhaps a bath as well?” 

His eyebrows raise questioningly and then a half-smile sneaks across his cheek, “Anything else you’d like for me to change? Perhaps my status as a Beast, too?” 

I know he meant to welcome an air of levity with that, but my heart suspends for a moment as I search his eyes quizzically. I want to know why he hates himself so much – surely it can’t be based solely on appearances? 

“What did I say about calling yourself a Beast?” My gaze falls away after that exchange, mind reverting all its attention onto his leg and nothing more. At least, I tried to do just that.

Musing silently, I swallow the growing lump caught in my throat; I don’t understand why that self-loathe affects me as much as it does, but…there is no denying that it does. No matter when he condemns himself, even in jest. _’It’s not of your worry, focus and then leave him be.’_

There’s a small metallic jar full of numbing salve perched on the corner of an end table; I dip two fingers into its thick before lathering the generous amount on top of where the wolves had torn into him. After, I enfold a clean strip of linen around said wound and tie it off unto itself, checking to make sure it’s secure and properly set. “There, it–“ 

He’s sitting up and staring at me, his chest rising and falling in quick succession. 

I feel my chest tighten as anxiety blooms, “What is it now?” 

His lips part once, then twice until, “I _am_ a creature, there is no refuting this. I’m a Beast and that’s the gift the Enchantress gave to me. I can’t be anything other than that. There is nothing more for me, Belle.” 

I’m muted into an unsettled, sullen state, the finality to his words echoing inside every vulnerable space within me. “Well, then I suppose there’s nothing more to do here, then.” 

He languishes at that, slouching down, as if all the fight had fallen right from him at the brashness of my hurtful sentiment. I knew it would pain him, I _knew_ it, and yet I said it anyway. 

I look away and make to leave, unable to continue watching the toll it takes on him, my own body brimming with confusion and self-reproach. I’m neither a mean nor a cruel person and yet, I’ve just–“…I saw you brought a book in with you. Won’t you stay and read a chapter?” 

I pause midway to the door and a shiver rolls from the icy ground at my feet straight through to my hair, “If I stay, I only ask that you consider a bath and a full nights sleep.” 

It was a situational diffuse, and I didn’t expect it to be seen as anything but. 

“Lumiere!” 

His voice booms throughout the castle bedroom and I falter backwards by its abrupt arrival. “What are you-“ 

“Yes, Master?” 

Lumiere suddenly appears, the dutiful servant seemingly come from nowhere. Or perhaps he was just outside the entranceway? I sneak slowly and peek my head through just enough to see the lot of them – Mrs. Potts, Cogsworth, and Chip - just there, waiting. 

They grin at me but make no apologies or recompense – I find myself entertained by the notion and send them a lighthearted wink before redirecting my attention back to the in-room conversation. 

“…bath drawn and a fresh pair of trousers laid out. Or, freshest you can find.” 

Lumiere nods and then sets off, tipping his proverbial hat at me in the process, “Ma chérie.” I smile in kind and then return to my surprising friend, who’s now seeing himself off the mattress one harrowing step at a time. 

“Do you want some help?” He’s limping away from the poster bed towards the washroom but holding balance that’s both steady and true, “No, thank you. I’ll be washing up now. Feel free to make yourself comfortable while you wait.” 

I laugh, “I think I’ll change those bloody sheets then if I’m going to be reading in this bedroom for any length of time.” 

He widens his eyes and then shakes is head, and suddenly, I can’t help but admire the two impressive horns that protrude from his skull. 

“Do you now have a thicker skull because of those?” Again. I’ve gone and asked a personal question without so much as a thought on its behalf, _again_. And on the way to the lavatory no less. Perhaps the Enchantress tricked this particular section of the castle as well, ensuring any silly village girls would, embarrassingly, lose their manners. 

Not likely, and yet. 

“Ehm, I’m…I’m not sure, actually. You mean like a ram or bison might have for when they go into battle with one another?” 

I nod and then shroud my bashful cheeks – I want to own up to my brazenness but I can’t seem to muster pride enough to do just that. At least not in this moment. 

A muffled, mumbled, “Yes,” slips through my covered lips and I hear him chuff, “Belle, it’s okay. I’d be curious, too, if it weren’t me. Embarrassment doesn’t suit you.” 

My hands fall at that and our eyes meet – his are telling, suspiciously confident even, but he says nothing more as he slips through the door and quietly seals it behind him. “Then yes, that’s what I meant!” I respond, raising my voice to ensure he hears. Just after, the lock pops loose and he leans halfway out, “I knew what you meant.” 

I smile to none as I make a path towards the crimson-dotted linens; just then I’m caught in a surprise congestion: Mrs. Potts and her line of serving carts carrying hot bath water, have arrived. 

“Oh, I didn’t hear you… Do you know where I might find fresh bedclothes? I figure I may keep my hands busy while waiting.” 

The teapot glances between the washroom’s door and myself and she smiles, “Oh, dear, we’ll take care of that! You go and explore a bit, now that he doesn’t seem to mind where you roam.” 

I start at that, “He doesn’t?” 

“Well, you’ve already visited the West Wing – _here_ – and thus endured such a needless wrath. Although to be fair, he had a brush-up with his own bout of just desserts as a result, didn’t he then? Anyway, I can’t think of anywhere else that you’d not be welcome. Though, he seems best lately when you’re nearby, don’t he?” 

I smile before realizing what she said was in fact _what she said_ , but by then, the head housekeeper rolled too far away for me to properly react. 

“Ah, yes, I’ll be…around then.” 

I exit with a mindset to aimlessly wander the hallways, but wind up inside of an expansive ballroom. It’s the exact one from the vision down in the cellar from the other night. Although, not quite as opulent and lavish as it once was, the room was still impressive, decorated with gold and an endless array of faded, dusty dashes of color. 

I close my eyes in an effort to remember it as it once was: a room full of life and beauty, but also of misguided and mistreated denizens who worshipped at the wrong alter. I open them again and there he is, Prince Adam – only he’s the man from _then_. 

I study the vision, awaiting what might come next while straining to hear something, anything. 

Adam appears alone, sat on a throne, saying altogether nothing and everything at once. His body is rigid and tense, shoulders pulled taut and chin chiseled by a furious grimace. His eyes are wide and accusing, feet tip-tapping by the lip on the pedestal beneath his chair. 

I move around and wait for the dream to pass, for this uneasy vision to subside, but it doesn’t. It continues on, haunting me like a ghost inhabiting a long forgotten house, yearning to be heard, to be seen. 

“Can you see me?” I know I shouldn’t speak to it, to him, but I do because there must be a reason for this happening here and now. Surely there must be…

The past does not disturb my present with an answer though, instead my apparition waves its hand before tearing at the wig on his head. It’s thrown far off to one end of the room and suddenly, there’s obvious anger and domination exuded – the Prince is screaming, appearing dreadfully feral even. At who or what subject, one might only guess. 

I back away, disturbed by the silent, ferocious visage and make to exit. As I do so, the receiving party manifests directly in front of me. 

It’s a young boy, perhaps of an age even half of my own. He’s kneeling before his Prince, tears falling freely from his worrisome eyes. I cringe and hollar for the memory to cease – I don’t _want_ to see anymore, don’t need to–“He was a very different man then, I’m afraid. I only ask that you not let this cloud who he has since become. In all these years waiting for…well, waiting, he’s changed.” 

Mrs. Potts is stood on the floor, gazing at the frightful interaction happening behind and all around us. I want to cry, to pretend as though I hadn’t been privy to this, but forgetting is not something I’ll be able to do. 

“Was he so cruel as to deserve his fate?” It’s an honest inquiry, and one I pray she will answer without metaphor nor riddle. 

“Like I said dear, he was a lot more different then than he is now. Come on, best we be on our way. He’ll be finished in the bath soon and I believe the both of you have more to discuss than the reading of a chapter or two.”

I nod and follow her out, dazedly uncertain as to how this night might continue on after this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you as always! I keep trying to wrap this story up, but more ideas are springing to mind everyday. Here's to plot beasties and spare time! x
> 
> < If you like this story, I'd love to hear your thoughts on why and where you'd fancy our favorites ending up. Or, leave a comment & I might just send cookies >


	9. Pride & Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beast & Belle talk by the fire. A lot of things are shared, some even hinting that there could more there than either of them realize just yet.

The servants are attentive as they circle him, so fully committed that they haven’t noticed I’m standing near to them. Which means, once again, I’ve come back to the West Wing. Of course Mrs. Potts knows I’m present though, as she was the one who accompanied me on an awkward journey from the ballroom to the Master’s room. 

Unintentionally, I’m drawn in to the scene that greets me, watching from a place of curiousness; he’s not settled into bed yet, and I blush at the sight. There’s a long, single length of linen wrapped around his midsection, being pulled from one side to the other in quick succession by two of his staff. His fur puffs and plumes at they go, undoubtedly exploited by the water and steam from the washroom. 

I notice then that he has a tail – _a tail_ – and my face adorns an even darker shade of crimson; I’m entirely powerless to stop how shameful it feels that I’m incapable of looking elsewhere. 

Tapping a foot against the stone flooring, I bite a lip on account of a sudden influx of indecisiveness – do I stare or turn away? What might he desire in such a situation? Eventually I avert my gaze altogether. Though even then I’m not sure if that’s the appropriate response, given what he thinks of himself. Or doesn’t, rather. 

A human might mind being spied upon…an animal would care not. But he is no animal. 

It’s as if I’m a touch seedier, like a little voyeur; akin to the kinds I’ve read about in mystery novels where a predator quietly stalks its prey. They do this most successfully in moments of high vulnerability, such as this one. For him, at least. 

I long to slip out the way I entered but Mrs. Potts reappears at the end of that thought, “He’ll be ready in a moment, my dear. Don’t worry, he won’t mind.” 

Contemplating on that, I want to ask her if it matters that _I_ might mind it, but then the dream resurfaces and a wave of heat floods me. 

_’Why do I feel this way, what does it mean? Do I wish that _it_ had actually happened – that he had really been in there with me? What…why would I want him to see me that way?’_

“Deary?” I sever my line of sight and try to tamper the flashback before peering at the genuinely kind, talking teapot. The stupor from my musings lingers on still, body in a heightened state of awareness, but I’m sorted enough to speak: “Ehm, yes, what was that?” 

She grins and tilts her spout towards a location directly to my rear. I turn and he’s standing right there, mostly dry but fully clothed in a fresh off-white top and navy-blue half-pants. His thick mane is no longer unkempt or dripping, rather it looks as if it were shaken out and patted down to appear as both clean and relaxed. 

He surprises me with a partial, lop-sided smile and then gestures for us to have a seat by the flame-ready fireplace. “The night is getting on and I’ve had the balcony sealed off. Shall we read warmly by the fire?” 

I recall my vision of him berating a young child and I freeze from a combination of judgement and unspoken accusations. “Belle? What is it?” 

The tone of his voice was worrisome enough that Mrs. Potts announced to the castle staff for them to leave their Master and his guest alone; the small collective acquiesces without any protest, shuffling out as fast as their little bodies permit. 

“Call if you require anything, Sire. We’ll be here in a moment’s notice.” 

Piercing blue eyes never leave mine as he nods in acknowledgment, and the tension goes on to grow insurmountably. The door slips shut with a hushed ‘boom’ and he proceeds on me one limping step at a time, “Belle?” 

“Were you so…so unimaginably cruel then that you shouted down children from a throne of gold and opulence?” The words come quick and fervently sharp, my mind a thrashing whirlwind, body exhausted by how far and wide the spectrum of emotions is when it comes to this male. 

“I don’t understand – I’ve not shouted at any children here?”

I get closer to him, and the space between us is almost dangerously forfeit, if either he or I moves forward another measure, we will be touching. “I _saw_ a vision of you…there was a young boy in tears as you sat there and condemned him. You were so angry you threw your wig. In the ballroom. Another moment from the past presented itself to me. I need to know…why, why were you so-“

“Punishing?” 

He moves away from me and covers his face with one large, impressive hand, the claws pressing in so harshly, they’re close to breaking through. They eventually ease their torment as the fight drains from him; he walks to an aforementioned seat by the fire and slumps down into it, adopting an awkward pose. 

“Sit and allow me to explain?” 

I want to, I do, but how might he explain the vicious scene I was privy to? How could he possibly rationalize that moment into anything less than what it was? 

“My father was a terrible man, and after my mother died, I was shown how to rule the world through his will.” 

I start at this unexpected reveal and suddenly recall the conversation between Mrs. Potts and I yesterday morning. About how she and the rest of the staff had done ‘nothing.’ Her words echo now, taking on a whole new meaning: _“You see, when the Master lost his mother and his cruel father took that sweet, innocent lad and twisted him up to be just like him, we did nothing.”_

That had come on the heels of concern for the curse and how or why they still seemingly cared for him. I had been judging the situation before knowing any of the facts, despite having spent that first night by his side. 

We’ve come a long way since my arrival at this cursed castle, and yet, the punishment of that poor child is something I’m struggling to shake free from. “Your father, the King?” 

He nods but still doesn’t look at me, “Mmhm. I hadn’t known then what I know now. He…he was a very bad man and I see that.” 

I want to know more, to know everything but I won’t push; each subsequent night he gives of himself and whether it be the resulting state of his injuries or otherwise, I don’t want to pry outright. 

“You weren’t very kind only a few nights ago, either.” I shouldn’t have, but if we are to sit and talk by flame, we must sit, and talk. 

His head rises at that, those stunning eyes following me as I occupy a chair opposite him. “What do you know these days that you hadn’t known then? Genuinely, I long to understand.” 

Despite his size, he moves gracefully atop the seat cushions, readjusting so that he’s at a better angle to me. “I…I was afraid of you on that turret. Fearful of what you’d think if you glimpsed what I really am. Your father had angered me by steal—by clipping a rose and I locked him away and that was that. His opinion of my appearance didn’t matter. Yours though…you can see this, yes? Why a creature like me might be hesitant to expose himself?” 

I tilt my head and lean in, wonderment and curiosity at the helm; silently, I push the obvious answer down and away from my mouth, too confused by it all to admit any one thing just yet. Beyond that, I want him to say it – in some convoluted sense of justice, I need to hear him speak the words. 

“No, I don’t see it. Please share with me why I was any different to you than my father.” Perhaps I’m angling too hard, or thrusting myself into a corner I won’t be able to walk out of, but something is happening here and I so long to know what. 

He chuffs and a rumble slithers up from somewhere low inside of his person, “Must I spell it out for you, Belle?” 

“If you expect me to read to you and continue to aid in your healing, then yes.” There’s a confidence to me that I’ve never experienced, but it borders on prideful and snobbish behavior, so I hold a hand up to stop him, guilt replacing entitlement. 

It was too late.

“You’re beautiful, Belle, that’s why. I saw that as soon as you rode hoof and foot onto my grounds. You were like a siren in the night come calling to resurrect the dead. Only you didn’t know this. How could you have?” 

Stunned, I sit with his truth. Although not completely shocked; I suppose I suspected him of feeling this kind of way, especially when he brushed hair from my lips the other night, but hearing it feels to be so much…more. 

I don’t know how to respond, or what to say if I did, so I smile and swallow the emotional bump in the rear of my throat. 

“Are you alright?” 

He’s watching me intently and I realize then that I need to offer up something in return, something to make what he’s said seem a touch less revealing. 

“I had a dream about you when I was in the bath…you were there in the washroom, watching me. You asked me if I would come to you – if I would break the spell. You… _seen_ me and I wasn’t frightened. I glimpse it happening still, feel it sometimes, too. A part of me believes it wasn’t a dream, wasn’t merely a fantasy my mind conjured to bring you closer. But I–“

I pause at a look of utter stupor, his face wearing a mask of shock and surprise – have I shared too much? Have I jumped a boundary that wasn’t meant to be crossed? 

_’I wanted to give more of me to help, not to create this incredibly awkward embarrassing mo-‘_

“You…you weren’t disgusted by my being there? But surely you were indisposed…disrobed, I mean, yes?” He stammers a bit on that last part and I combat the smile that marks my features – it’s his embarrassment I should try to temper, not my own. 

“It was a dream. Of course, I hadn’t known then that it was. Mrs. Potts heard me…I may have repeated the words you had spoken to me a time or two. _That_ was slightly humiliating but never you. You’re not a creature to me, remember.” 

He settles – again – before leaning his head against the backing of the seat, “Belle, I am not a man. I have no place watching you in the bath or–“ 

“Or brushing a frayed, stuck bit of hair from lips…in bed no less?” 

He ceases the rhetoric and casts his gaze into the fire, a look of shame pulling at his tired face. 

“A creature would know no gentleness. But I believe we’ve discussed this line of thought already. It won’t do either of us any favors to beat said horse to death time immemorial.” 

“Why? Why do you not fear _this_?” His hand gestures from north to south, indicating his entire body in the question. “What is it about you that doesn’t allow for judgement? Surely I deserve as much.” 

“No, you deserve to judged on how you treat others – which I haven’t forgotten about – not simply by appearances. I understand you a bit further after every conversation you and I share and I think you do, too. About yourself, if not me as well.” 

He slips into silence and goes completely motionless, eyes secured to the flickers and embers that float and rise higher and higher still. “You felt me move your hair?” 

I nod and fold my legs up and into my middle, reveling in the warmth of this moment – it seems to be fleeting with him, so I treasure whenever they comes to pass. “I did.” 

“And you didn’t mind?” 

“Why would I have minded that? Your hand was warm against my skin and it was…nice. A kind gesture.” 

His chin presses down against the fresh linen blouse and one lip curls into the other; it’s utterly endearing and I wonder idly if he does it often. “May we read now? Surely we can talk more about this and a collective past later?” 

It’s an easy question but one coated with a hint of desperation: he wants to get away from matters of the heart for the time being, for surely that is what this is now. His heart and mine and how we’re becoming familiar to one another’s. Bending, compromising.

“Absolutely. How’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winding down on this one & just in time as the 30 day prompt starts in 2 days – GULP. (Visit my profile fore more if curious!)
> 
> Also, I know this one is a bit more suggestive than some of the others, hope that doesn't put anyone off. I go where my muse tells me and no farther. :) Thanks again!


	10. The Library & The Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beast takes Belle to the library, where he surprises her with another gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! The 30 Day challenge is CONSUMING. Definitely ONE chapter to this remaining, so stick around!

“…love can transpose to form and dignity, love looks not with the eyes but with the mind an–“

“And therefore is winged cupid painted blind.” 

My disposition lightens as he finally wakes. After conversing by the fire and ushering him to bed prior to leaving for my own bout of rest, it was a tiresome night indeed. I was only able to rouse and return after two cups of tea, and the well-risen sun, to continue reading. 

Which the material is, I’ve discovered, something he’s familiar with. At least when it comes to knowing the words of Shakespeare’s great works. I’ve not met anyone else who’s done what he just has and so my curiosity is immediately piqued. 

“You know Shakespeare?” 

He gathers himself, pulling that large body higher up in the bed, “I had an expensive education.” Well, of course he did. I shouldn’t be surprised to find he knows every line from every play, and yet, somehow it _is_ still funny. Not in the ‘ha-ha’ kind of way, rather in the wholly unexpected sort. 

“Actually, Romeo and Juliet is my favorite play.” 

He sighs an exasperated, petulant exhale that ends after an extension I didn’t think was warranted. 

“I’m sorry?” 

After finishing a cad eye-roll, he grips the bed linens and turns to me, “Well, all that heartache and pining, and _bleh_ ,” he ceases for a moment to dramatically expel his tongue before, “So many better things to read.” 

I look around the room, wishing and hoping someone else had seen such improper, childish behavior. Alas, it was only I, but his words were curious nonetheless, “Like what?” 

“Don’t believe me? I’ll show you.” He tosses the heavily-lined duvet off and sets himself out of bed. “I’ll need to put a change of clothes on toot sweet. Care to wait in the hall? We’ll have to take a stroll to where we’re going next.” 

“Won’t you tell me our heading?” 

He runs one of his hands through the messy undergrowth of his beard and smiles – a real smile – and shakes his head ‘no.’ I smirk begrudgingly but there’s a tiny butterfly flitting about inside of my belly – it seems I enjoy this intriguing side to him. 

“Do you need any help?” Another fluid side-to-side head movement – a no – and so I’m on my way. 

It’s an odd feeling – I’ve assisted with every simple thing since the night of wolf attacks that I’m…sad he doesn’t require me to do so anymore. Yes, I really _am_ a bit forlorn he’s asked me from his room, but– _stop that, Belle. It’s only for a minute. Besides, it’s a good thing – means he’s healing.’_

“Ready to start?” He’s dressed – actually wearing a grown man’s wardrobe and I can’t help the flight of fancy that soars at the sight. It’s quite a nice look to him: the embroidered great coat is seam-stretched but fitting still – and while a set of matching breeches appear to be in a similar state of disrepair, it works well together. Lastly, the top is a gradient white that fades as it descends and he’s…tucked it neatly away into his half-trousers. I find that to be the most human thing he's done since I've been here and the elation that strikes does not go unnoticed. 

"What is it?" He looks himself over, smoothing a line straight down the center of his chest nervously. "Nothing. You look very appealing, the color really brings out your eyes." I pinch the thick lapel and brush off a speck of dust that wasn't really there to emphasize my point. I’ve found physical contact is the best way to assure someone of something – especially _this_ someone. 

Those same vivid blues do a dance of avoidance and he looks up, redirecting his gaze from a newfound shyness. "Thought I'd dress…just, I don’t know, dress.”

"Well, it works. Was this yours already or did Madame de Garderobe fashion it after you were altered?” He squints and takes me in, offering a half-smile, "No, this was mine. A rather ratty thing now I suppose, what with the seams all but bursting."

I offer up an impish grin, then we hush and the journey begins. I look on as he descends the West Wing’s staircase one step ahead and want so much to ask what it’s like to have legs different from those he had been born with. But I stop myself before the words escape – it is none of my business and not a question that sounds either respectful or appraising. 

Still, the curiosity lingers and I can't stop myself from admiring how graceful he is with what seems like an incredible feat. 

“How far have we to go? I swear I’ve nosed my way into every crevice of this grand castle and yet…I know of no where there exists books better than Romeo and Juliet.” 

He struggles to hide amusement and I leap a few paces ahead ensuring view of his face. He’s not walking faster on purpose, but he’s…excited and his height is making it slightly difficult to keep up. “Impatient little woman, aren’t you?” 

“Oh and who’s the one racing to get there now, hmm?” He slows at my observance and if his cheeks could have tinted red from having been caught, they would have. “Touché.” 

“What’s your favorite novel, since you’re so keen to judge mine?” He bobs his head in quick successions as he thinks on it, “I suppose I haven’t had one for quite some time. I’ve not read in years. Found no use for it.” 

Sadness settles into my bones like a flash of torrential rainfall, filling me whole and driving all the light from within. “I’d have thought one might turn towards fantasy to sustain, no? That’s what I do whenever life becomes too heavy.” 

He stops, hides those eyes and clears his throat with a quieted growl. “Belle, what I’ve become is… This–this is Atlas with the world on his shoulders, heavy. I… Perhaps it’s best we just get on?” 

I want to apologize but I’m not sure why; why wouldn’t he combat loneliness and sorrow with happiness and hope? Does he think so lowly of himself that even the smallest respite from reality is not permissible? Yes, of course he does and it’s like an arrowhead burrowing deeper within my soul – I want to help, but I simply don’t know how. 

“I wish so much that you could share with me the key to breaking this spell. Not for any other reason than you deserving peace from yourself.” 

He swallows and reaches out to brush hair from my cheek to behind my ear, “Oh, ma chérie, some things in life are better left mysteries. But I…I thank you. For just knowing that’s how you feel about–for _this_.” He waves a hand at himself and then nudges his head forward, hinting at us to continue on. 

The corridor is swept up in swift silence as we walk on without word or shared discussion. But I feel so helpless at the idea of remaining mute in the face of adverse conditions – so much so that it’s starting to anger me. 

I’m primed to implode by every unsaid word catapulting within my brain and just as I open my mouth, the announcement of our arrival booms. 

“We’re here.” 

Ah, so we are. I’m stood in front two exceptionally massive doors, their handles made of gold with rich, ornate inlays to match. There’s leaves and vines and endless patterns of the precious metal molded so impeccably that I cannot stop myself from reaching out to stroke it. 

“This is…something else. The delicacy of these floral patterns is extraordinarily rare and absolutely breathtaking.”

He chuffs and his face brightens with an affectionate smirk, “My mother wanted this place to be _more_ than the rest of the castle and so she had these constructed by her own designs. She even watched the metalsmith work right up until the man completed and polished it. She was never more proud of anything in her life than these doors.” 

My fingers are still touching the curvy, smooth yellow-gold, but I turn, “What about you? Was she not proud of you?” The thought was free and gone before I had a chance to reel it in, though he didn’t seem perturbed by it, “No, you’re right. She counted me among them, too. I was her first love, these doors were her second and third.” 

He had omitted himself intentionally and once again, the short rope wrapped around my emotions pulls ever tighter. I remove my hand and cover my chest, outwardly silent yet burdened by a heart screaming for his to hear my own.

“Ready?” A nod and then he starts in with our earlier conversation – as though it had never stopped – as he opens the heavy doors. 

“Well, there are a couple of things in here you could start with.” 

He steps beyond me and then I lose sight of him altogether as my mind grapples with what he’s delivered: a massive, seemingly endless library. _A Library._ My heart stammers uncontrollably beneath my breast and I long to sit, no, I want to read, forever from now until my last day on this earth, here in this wondrous place. Why would someone not spend their every waking moment in h–“You alright?” 

He’s watching, studying my reaction so fully that he’s grown worried by the sudden stupor, “It’s _wonderful._ ” 

“Yes, I suppose it is. Well, if you like it so much then it’s yours.” 

_’Wha–what?’_ I try to say, but every letter abandons me and I’m left to my own devices as he limps away, somewhere off towards the right. In another room. In a library. 

He never answered the question as to which book was his favorite and now I have an inkling as to why. Still, “have you really read every one of these books?” 

A short “Hmm?” emits followed immediately by a small chuff and a gaze-around, “Well, not all of them. Some of them are in Greek.” 

I laugh at that – genuinely, I do – while simultaneously taking to the way his mouth and lips pulled to one side with those jesting words. I wonder if this was a trait in the form before this but either way, I’m drawn to it and the attractiveness of the entire scene as a whole. 

“Was that a joke? Are you making jokes now?” 

He thinks on it a spell, eyes unfocused and then a hushed, “Maybe,” slips from him. He turns his back to me after, moving faster this time, before a small shake of his head ends any line of thought. 

I spin around in a slow circle, treading a backwards path; it’s overwhelming, this place, this moment, and so I cover my mouth with both hands and…squeal. It’s not an animalistic sound but I couldn’t have helped it for all the tea in England. This is the single most beautiful place I have ever been and I ache to hold and read every single page and piece of parchment lying on these dusty shelves. 

“Well, this might be a fine selection for you to start with.” I angle my upper half over his left arm and steal a glance at which book he’s placed on the table. “Guinevere and Lancelot, sounds like an interesting choice. Have you read it?” 

He confirms that he has, in fact, read said novel, although he spares no more details beyond that. “I shall start it this evening, by that fire, in this _library._ ” The excitement has yet to wear off, and I see him smile, albeit discreetly, his peripheral vision absorbing some of my unsuppressed happiness. 

“I have to ask of you… Do you have a copy of Romeo and Juliet on hand? I’ve no doubt you should, but I’d love to read it ag–Oh, what now?” 

He rises and trots away, moving as swiftly as his injured limbs will allow. “Where are… Really? That’s how bad you loathe that story? Goodness, me.” 

He returns with both hands hidden behind his back, “Choose an arm and if you’re correct, you can read the entire play to me, with an assurance that there will be no complaints whatsoever.” 

I pop up before him and bite my bottom lip in thought; I _want_ to read it to him, but really I just want to read it _again_. “Hmm.” Thinking, I consider which is his dominant hand and whether or not he’d try to deceive me after the fact. I don’t think he will, but if he does I won’t be quick to forget any such tomfoolery.

I exhale a long plume of wind and make my choice: his left. He brings his arm forward and flips his hand palm up, revealing a beautiful, brand new novel. “Is this a…first edition? But…how did you come upon this?” Tears suddenly pool and populate my blushing cheeks; this is all too much. I throw caution and inhibition to the wind: leaning up, I place a kiss on his cheek, feeling the softness of his fur and the corner of his lip brush against my own. 

“Thank you, thank you. From the bottom of my heart. This is…Oh! This means I can read it to you, as I’ve chosen correctly!” 

He’s still, unnervingly motionless, but grinning widely. It tickles my stomach, that happiness painted on his face, but I forfeit such thoughts and return my attention to the best gift I’ve ever be given. 

“Perhaps after supper we might begin?” He nods, still utterly silent. It’s not long before he walks to another table piled high with books that were never put where they belong. 

“Do you think maybe you might give me a proper introduction to your steed?” 

I gaze up from staring at the pristine leather-bound novel kept safely in my hands, “Philippe? Of course. I didn’t know you liked horses?” 

“I do, had a stable full of them once. But that was a long time ago. I don’t know if he’ll take too kindly to me, but I’d like to know the strong stallion that carried me home.” 

“Okay, this afternoon then. We’ll grab a poetry volume and take a walk, too? I think some cool air would be welcome after all the thrills today.” 

He laughs, undoubtedly amused by my definition of thrill, but he’s already searching for what I’ve asked for. “William Sharp will do?” 

“Ah yes, I love that one. It’ll be perfect. Everything feels so…wonderful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I jazzed up the library doors in this one for the sake of the story – in the film they were rather academic with gold rectangular designs and nothing more. Also, if anyone has any solid websites for French fashion from their suspected time period, please send! It's hard researching something when I don't know the name of it – ooof! x


	11. Memories Are Fine Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beast and Belle walk the grounds with a poem that sheds light on their situation. Belle introduces Philippe and then there's a snowball incident that may have caused more trouble than Beast intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAH! Finally an update to this fic! Just shy of the 1 month mark! I'm so so sorry! The 30 Day Challenge stole me away, but now I'm rested, relaxed and ready to finish this. Which I know I've said time and again but really, they make it impossible for me to commit to conclusions!

I walk beside Belle as she reads, one line and then another, her lyrical tone churning a collective of unfamiliar emotions inside of me. I’m taken by this girl, this intellectual woman who refuses to tolerate me for any lapse of irrational, ill-tempered behavior. She’s put me in my place, cared for me, and now, shares her time and company without nary a reservation. 

_”The air is blue and keen and cold,_  
And in a shining sheath enrolled.  
Each branch, each twig, each blade of grass,  
Seems clad miraculously with…glass.” 

I gaze around as poetic words sing from her lips, overwhelmed by the beauty that’s been here all along; this new-old world that spins around me is blanketed in brilliant whites and cerulean-blues. The trees are frozen in time and yet, they reach towards the sky in hopes of an eternal spring. This water is solid but beneath its thick layer of ice, I know it flows as surely as the wind blows. “I feel as if I’m seeing it for the first time.” 

Turning to Belle, I shrug slightly at her eager expression; I want her to continue on but am unsure as to how it may sound should I ask. Is it right for me to want more beauty from this moment, from her? She’s staring at me with kindness laden in her eyes and I know then that she won’t judge if I take the chance. She never has.

“Is there any more?” 

Her mouth opens into a wide smile and an honest laugh arises before she moves on with the poem.

_”For in that solemn silence is heard  
in the whisper of every sleeping thing:_

_Look, look at me,  
Come wake me up  
for still here I’ll be.”_

Lost to time but not the meaning of those words, my mouth languishes as I gaze upon her. It’s unbelievable that she chose such the passage on a day like today – given where we are and what’s become of this situation since that first night. 

We look at one another as the prose settles between us; I feel a lopsided smile cross my features and then a thought blooms: what is this…what’s happening here? 

Just as quick as it comes, I uniformly force it to go — but we both training our sights elsewhere. Was I wrong to assume she thought similarly? 

She clears her throat, “Care to go meet Philippe?” I nod, Belle grins and off we walk towards the stables without a word more. 

The horse has an endless field and all the hay, oats and water he’d ever want, but for me, meeting him is an ancient memory come alive. Desjardins was the last stallion I owned and setting him free had been a heartbreaking event unto itself, even after my transition. But now, here, there’s been life breathed anew and I know I must come to terms with it at once. I’m also curious as to how he might take to me, given my animalistic nature. 

Belle brings her steed ‘round from the side of the barn as I wait hesitantly, ensuring I mind every precaution so as not to spook him. “Here we are. This is Philippe. Philippe, this is my…friend, Adam.” 

She’s rarely addressed me by my true name but now that it’s been spoken, and done so freely at that, I’m rendered mute. Such a simple thing shouldn’t have me in this state but hearing it from those lips leave me fraught with another dose of foreign feelings. I find I want her to call me that more often, but will never admit to such a longing. For I no longer appear as a man named Adam might and– 

“Well? Are you coming over to say hello or shall I tell him he’s no longer needed?” My eyes snap to find hers and an involuntary mumble emits, something akin to a garbled “oh.” I finally complete the few steps towards her trusted animal and reach out my hand. The beautiful beast chuffs loudly before hopping a leg away and I flinch backwards, certain now that this was a mistake from the beginning. I’m a familiar to him, a predator. 

And I am that. 

“Here,” Belle grabs my hand – _she’s touching my hand_ – and places it on the side of Philippe’s expansive torso. She’s touched me before, when I was injured and in need but this…is different. She’s gentle, and warm. I turn to see her, my eyes searching hers of their own accord – surprise is evident and there was no simple way to hide it. 

She slips her palm away from the top of my fingers and offers a side-smile before walking away. It’s then I realize the stallion is trusting me because of her. Which, of course he would. Belle is pure and good and I’ve long suspected that there is not a single bone in her body that was made to hurt or harm. 

I pet the now-relaxed beast with both hands for a few quiet moments until a ball of compacted wet snow slams onto my shoulder. I scowl and wobble before shifting to find its source – and there is Belle, smiling, laughing childishly at the sneaky accomplishment. Warmth spreads throughout my chest despite the chill in the air but if she’s to start this, I’ll not be quick to let an opportunity go to waste. 

Using inertia to bundle a snowball sizable for my paws, I direct, aim and let loose the monstrous projectile. It smashes directly into her face and try as I might, I laugh. I’m _laughing_ but stop when I realize she’s no longer visible on the bridge. I wonder idly if she’s preparing a snow assault on me but then also – what if I hurt her? 

I take the stone steps three at a time, discovering Belle laid out on cold, wet ground, dazed and more than a little frustrated. With me, of this there’s little doubt. Her cheeks are fire-red, and a nose that’s donning a matching color, “Are you alright? Here, allow me to help you…stand.” 

Reaching, I gather her in my arms, and set the girl back onto two booted heels. Unthinking, I brush a few bits of melting snow from her pink cheeks and blow on an eyelash, “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to have it strike you in the face.” 

She’s motionless as I try to dry her, hands balled into fists by her hips, “You could have seriously injured me! My head nearly crashed into the stone. Got a bit of an ache there now, if I’m being completely transparent.” 

Pausing, I remove both hands from her and place myself a few feet away, my tail literally between my legs, “You’re always transparent. Anyway, I’m sorry, Belle. Let’s get you inside and into a fresh set of dressings. I’ll have Chapeau return Philippe to his stable at once.” 

The girl squints and gazes north towards me, then moves to the staircase that leads to the grand entranceway. We arrive and she opens the door in the same hesitant manner as when she first did so. Only this time is vastly different; I’m keeping pace behind her, a hand resting near the small of her spine but never actually touching it – I wouldn’t dare be so forward again. Not after I just was in the efforts of getting her upright. 

Chapeau does a small gesture of protocol and Belle follows suit with a dip of her head; he retrieves her cloak and shakes it a spell before draping it onto one of his hanging hook-arms. I fondly acknowledge him with a head-tilt and then her and I walk to the East Wing stairs. Only, she diverts direction towards the _West_ Wing. 

“Belle, don’t you desire a dry shift and stay? I thought you might be…damp.” She ignores me and ascends the endless steps, keeping care to stay far to the left, lest she fall from the open-air walkways. 

I follow in silence, footfall hesitant and light, unlike when we had first met. I was hard-headed and mean — loud; in such a short time this girl has chang-“I want to have a lie down, do you mind?” 

We’re stood outside my quarters and I flounder for a moment, “You want to sleep…in here? Well, uh, yes…of course you may. I’ll find somewhere else to be in the meanwhile. Perhaps visit the kitchens and see what’s in store for our evening menu.” 

I smile and make every intention to leave, “No, I–I thought, perchance, you’d…stay with me? I find I don’t like being alone in this stone palace of visions and emptiness. It feels better around you. Besides, you owe me a basin of hot water for my aching face and it’d be easier if we were sharing a room for a few hours.” 

“Why…yes, yes you’re right, I do owe you, don’t I?” I lean forward, my chest brushing her arm as it angles downwards to grasp the doorknob. Twisting it halfway, I press a palm to the grand wood and it creaks open, slowly, “After you.” 

She grins and then dips a shoulder; once inside, she goes directly for the mattress. “You’ll need to give me a moment in the washroom to slip out of these clothes. My back is cold and wet.” 

I swallow and fold my arms behind my torso, “Shall I call on Madame de Garderobe and have something brought in for you? And perhaps a bath…too?” 

She aims a questioning look my way as petite fingers work to unfasten the ties of her stay, “I mention a basin once and here you are already, angling for me to get a wash in your room. Trying to recreate that dream, yes?” 

“What…absolutely not! I was merely trying to make–“ Belle comes over and places her hand to my heart, “Relax, I called upon a shared memory to lighten the mood. Anyway, while we’re here, can you tear the string on my right side? Seems it’s found itself tangled and I’m far too tired to care about a proper undoing.” 

She wants me to help disrobe her? My head bobs nervously, and then she presents her side to me. I see the knot at the base and kneel down to see if there’s any chance of fixing it. I’ve done a lot of breaking in my life, and it’s something I’d fancy putting a great distance in between. 

“I can probably…if I could only wiggle my finger into its loop, then we’ll… _you’ll_ be good to go.” I avoid her gaze, although I sense a teasing smile living there; Belle’s in a particular mood but I’m not entirely certain as to what it is or where it may lead us. 

“Wiggle away.” 

I look down and lick at the inside of my lip — she’s up to something, I’m sure of it. “Are you feeling well?” She chortles but doesn’t offer anything beyond that so resolutely, I don’t push. 

After a few more moments, I eventually give up trying to fix the threading and tear the thing, just as she had originally asked me to. Her stay opens slightly to reveal the off-white shift beneath; I rise in haste and move towards the door, “Thank you. Where are you going? Hot water?” 

I can’t answer her now, this is…she’s too close. We’re too close. These last few days have been unduly normal and now _this_? 

Speeding away from my bedchamber, I race through the turrets and climb, higher and higher still. At last I’m outside, the snow and frigid wind whipping at my mane like a bat out of hell. I close the world away, feeling every strike of tiny ice as they barrage against me. It tempers the fires that have grown from this day of newfound adventure but I find myself…distracted. 

Why did she…how could she… Am I wrong to think there might be _more_? 

I throw the long coat from off of my shoulders and deflate down onto all fours, adopting the natural pose my form is most comfortable with. I appear more like a lion, or perhaps a canine, in this position but that’s…what I am. And so be it I must. 

My chest is tight and hands are wrecked, shaking and unsteady by all that’s happened on this unsuspecting day. Gazing out over the frosted grounds, I watch the sun begin to set and my heart grows cold. Whatever events have been brought to me will not last through to the morn, and though memories are fine ghosts to admire, these are to certain to haunt all the long nights to come. 

I howl a cry into the blackened sky and languish beneath the weight of my heavy, malformed torso — if only I could be all the things she so deserves. I would give her the kingdom if only to show that she is true treasure and measure of wealth. 

Anguish slips easily and unbidden, my heart severing with each pump of blood that brings me closer to an end I’ve never longed more for than now. 

The hurt is so deep, so distracting, that I didn’t hear her ascend the rise behind me until it was too late to hide, “Adam?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking it out with me! This is slightly different from the film – another expanded scene, I suppose. Would love to hear your thoughts. x


	12. Crash of Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle doesn't get answers to his actions on the turret because it's too cold for her and too much for him. Eventually she sleeps, wakes alone and then goes to find Beast in the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long delay! July has been hell on writing for me!

I go to him — his crouched, hunched shape is a disturbing sight, defeated-like and broken; laying a hand upon his shoulder, I take to a whisper, “Adam, are you alright? I heard a…screaming. I thought…I thought I’d find, well I’m uncertain as to what I believed would greet me, but…it’s you and, an-” 

“I’m fine. You needn’t worry. Go, return to your chamber and forget you ever stumbled upon this wretched moment.” 

I rewrap a thick linen quilt tight to my shoulders, teeth chattering from the frosty wind that breathes in the space between us, “I’ll n-not leave you, not tonight.” 

“But you will, leave. Won’t you?” 

Adam’s eyes search mine as he rises, his impressive height blocking the moonlight and shrouding me in a vision of black. “Let’s get you inside. It’s far too cold out here.” 

“Not until you t-tell me why you w-were howling at the moon like a feral wo-wolf.” I pause to gather what little warmth I can from my clothes and the blanket that keeps me, but it’s no use — it’s too frigid to focus. 

“Inside, now,” he directs, then proceeds to lean down and lift me into his arms as though I were a tiny plaything; he carries us into the castle quickly, holding my body to his with a grip that’s altogether gentle and secure. As we travel, I swat strands of icy hair that have blown onto my cheeks and then wait for warmth to find me. I absent-mindedly take to molding myself to his torso when the chill continues to nip, knowing he’s what will soothe this ache. 

He’s warm, not as hot as he typically is, but it’s enough. _He’s enough, as he is._ I wonder idly if he realizes this, and it’s in that moment that those screams come racing back… 

“Will you tell me the source of your agony, or am I to remain uninvited from your inner torments?” 

He ignores me, or rather chooses not to answer, but I silently deduce that such a hesitation _is_ his answer. Sometimes, the quiet is all that’s needed to understand another’s true intent. 

Still, nothing is more of import than seeing the way through this trial of his. 

“Adam…?” 

He stops at the base of the turret — onto the landing that’s caught between the East and West Wings. A heavy sigh reduces his bulk by a quarter and the thought strikes me that this might be as good a time as any to listen to his heartbeat. Since he is putting no effort into his speech. 

I’ve never been this close to him for this long a time and if he won’t open up verbally, at least I can rest easy knowing he isn’t _actually_ broken. 

I press an ear onto his white top shirt, and feel the short fur depress as I settle; it’s a soft sensation, akin to that of a pillow, before my cheek is met with muscle and bone. And then, there it is — a steady, rhythmic, strong _thump-thump_. His heart, Adam’s heart.

I shut my eyes and flatten a hand onto the opposite side of his breastbone, my body drained from the day, the climb and the wintry weather; the grandfather clock is not the only thing that begs for slumber to claim me. As my mind begins to languish, I remember the few words he had spoken and it’s comes as a shock that forces me to be alert, “You don’t have to be afraid…I won’t lea-“ 

He shushes me as we make towards the East Wing staircase — we’re on to my quarters then, instead of his. I find myself downtrodden by the notion but refuse to summon another round of inquiry to the surface. I’m simply far too tired and he’s doesn’t appear to be in a particularly welcoming mood tonight. Apart from the hasty rescue of a terminal case of winter, of course. 

He ascends one step at time but my state of consciousness is waning again; my intent is not to be rude, as I suspect he must also be quite drowsy, but fighting the inevitable feels more and more like a losing battle. Eventually everything fades and all that remains is his heartbeat and warmth and nothing else. No screams, no sounds of anguish and despair. No frozen air or thoughts of what dreams may come. Just this life and the comfort he’s offering.

——

I wake a few hours later to the memory of thick duvets laid over my body; in my sleepy haze, I hadn’t thought he might take great care, but now I can’t cease the grin that paints my relaxed features.

I whisper to the darkness with genuine gratitude, “Thank you,” but sense he’s no where nearby. I wonder if he remained for a little while, or even considered lying next me like I once did with him. Doubt clouds my idle mind — he’s simply too gentlemanly to seek blatant, intentional closeness. Especially whilst I was unaware. 

Slipping from the grand poster-bed, I ease my heels back into the only pair of boots I own; it occurs to me that he must have untied and removed these from me, too. Another smile, another pull towards him in a way I can’t fully describe. 

Wandering the hallways, I pause at the fork between his wing and the one I’ve just hailed from. Perhaps he’s resting in his quarters, seeing that it’s early morning yet? No, something about last night’s scene on the balcony gives me a great swell of certainty that he is _not_ asleep. 

So I shift my gaze elsewhere, setting aim towards the library instead. That seems as sure a place as any for him to be, given the still, somnolent nature of the castle. All servants, aids and friends are wrapped in their dreams and I suspect that is precisely where they’d prefer to remain for the time being.

It doesn’t occupy but five or so minutes to reach my destination and as I suspected, he’s present. Wide awake and leaning over a heavy-bound book, attention focused solely on the pages in his hand. He’s not heard me enter and I use this to my advantage, sneaking up on him like a thief in the night. Which, now that I think on it — perhaps I am just the thing I’m pretending to be. But what I’m stealing isn’t anything he’s not wanted me to take. Of that much I’ve been privy to.

Walking silently, I notice a cluttered elmwood table — it wasn’t so disorganized and overwhelmed yesterday afternoon. Passing a curious glance at the titles that lay there…my heart stops alongside my steps. 

There are a dozen or so tomes that aim to educate its reader on rare, ancient spell-work and bewitching enchantments…along with how to break them. There are also medical leaflets teaching one how to transform their appearance through medieval sciences. Ones that come complete with a disturbing warning of irreparable alterations. 

I cover my mouth as I brush through a few of the smaller collections, each novel taking me down a frightening path I’d never known existed. A horror of self-hate and a deep-seeded desire for physical change. 

“I’ve been meaning to discard those, Belle. Before you had a chance to find them.” 

He’s caught me. No wonder, given the audible state of my shock and dismay. “Do you really think so little of yourself that you’d…you would-you _can’t_ do this, Adam. There’s nothing **wrong** with you. This isn’t right, none of this is the way for you. I don’t understand…please make me understand! Tell me what breaks the curse, and I’ll do it. Tell me…just tell me please, oh, God, please…I can’t have you living in your mind like this!” 

I’m begging, unabashedly pleading with desperate, shaking hands; my fists swing wildly, abusing the strained muscles of my thighs with every passionate crash of contact. He races to me and takes my chin in both of his hands, focusing all attention onto him, “Belle, I was in an exceedingly dark place after the curse was placed upon me and this castle, and these novels were a last resort. I’m ashamed to admit that I once considered fatal self-harm, but…I couldn’t. It wasn’t allowed. So, these were all I had. I read every page, forgoing sleep and nourishment but not a single word was worth the resulting toll it’d take. And there was no assurance that the Enchantress couldn’t simply return and undo any painful experiment I had done to myself. And here, tonight, I thought I’d gather them for a just burning in the upcoming days.” 

I listen to his honest words and breathe deeply, willing the tremors to ease with each passing lungful of air. But the tears still come as my own intent is revealed, “Why can’t you tell me your truth, the solution to your despair? I am more than willing to help, I _feel_ it in my bones that I can be what is needed. But you hesitate still, disconnecting me from an end you so wantonly seek.” 

Using the pads of his thumbs, he brushes the saline drops from my streaked skin and smiles; it’s a warm, welcoming sight and it births a new, different bloom of compassion in my belly. I know how powerful a being Adam is, and yet he’s capable of such reverence and calm. “If I told you, you could never become what I so hope for you to be.” 

I close my eyes and fall against him, body exhausted all over again from such a flash of fervor in this unexpected situation. “Let’s sit. Shall I have tea brought in for us?” 

He guides me to the nearest lounge and I sink into it with about as much grace as a bird falling from its nest for the first time. “No, no tea, thank you. I’d rather Mrs Potts get the rest she deserves.” 

He nods as he wraps his banyan around me, looking around for any other means of comfort and warmth. “You’re warm, too.” 

His eyes cut back to meet mine at that and he chuffs, “I am. How about a book, too?” 

“A novel would be lovely. Nothing from that table, mind you.” I point to the elmwood containing horrors and evil things and shiver; what he might have done to himself is anyone’s guess but the fact that he even went so far as to consider it is distressing in and of itself. 

I observe as he shifts a few stacks from here to there, picking and choosing before setting said choice down again. Until, “Antony and Cleopatra?” I laugh and he grins, “That’s sort of…heavy, don’t you think?”

He returns it to the tabletop and tilts his head, “But it did make you smile, so let’s pay tribute for that if nothing else.” 

I lick my lips and fold them together, tears gathering in my eyes _again_ , but stop before they spill. He seems so vastly different from the screams up on the frozen stone earlier; I want to ask what’s changed, but I’m not ready to ruin the safe space we’ve crafted — _he’s_ crafted — for us tonight.

“Onward the search goes then.” He mumbles this and pours through another three piles before settling, returning to me without sharing the name of his pick. “And? What pray tell is on the menu this obscenely early morn?” 

The cushion beside me plunges as he sits and I fall onto his arm as he works to angle his body just-so; there’s a quick pause and a laugh before he straightens his posture, purposely adding a length between us. He doesn’t vocalize the endearing awkwardness of the moment, rather seizes the opportunity and reveals the book cover we’re set to enjoy. 

“Ah, _The Pilgrim’s Progress_. I’ve never read it but have heard of it from my local chaplain. Was always hoping a copy would turn up but it never seemed to find it’s way to Villeneuve.”

“I think you’ll like it. Want me to do the honors or…?” I watch the shift and movements of his mane as he cracks the spine open and smoothes a great hand across the old paper, “I’d like it if you read to me. I won’t fall asleep, I promise.” 

He connects his blue to my brown and raises his brow line, “If you do, it’d be alright. We can always start again where we leave off.” 

I smile in kind but then the remark he made on the turret returns to me — the one about my leaving him. Or, at least the ‘him’ in that equation was implied. I decide to break the silence on the matter for fear of it tainting the truth of us in this time and place. I don’t want to look back on a fond memory and know I had more to say and didn’t. 

“Do you think I’ll leave you in the future? And you’ll be alone again? Is that why you howled? It’s not the curse anymore, is it? It’s me.” 

Adam closes the book and inhales more air in a single breath than I am capable of with three. “Belle, I…I can’t.” 

“You can’t…what?” 

“I can’t…or rather I’d prefer _not_ to discuss this because I know, _I know_ it will come to pass. That was the howl — not the curse or the thought of being alone. It’s the thought of not…” He halts and swallows, and moves to look far away, hiding himself from me. 

“Of not, _what?_ ” 

“Please, I beg of you, Belle. May we share our company and companionship and revel in the stillness of this quiet morning?” 

“Okay, Adam. We can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments, kudos and shares – means more than you'll ever know! Also, yes, still. winding. down. on this one. I promise it won't be long! x

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for all the amazing feedback!
> 
> Also, a brand new, completely AU BATB fic is in the works & will be coming soon. Bookmark me if you're into that sort of thing ;)


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